Operation: The Third Day
by Fedora Kid
Summary: Eight years after the events of Sly 3, Carmelita is suddenly and savagely murdered. When Sly attempts to track down the murderer, he finds himself involved in a much grander scheme than he could have ever imagined.
1. Target: Fox

**Operation: The Third Day**

**Disclaimer: Fedora Kid doesn't own Sly Cooper or any of its characters; those rights belong to Sucker Punch and Sony Computer Entertainment America.**

**Rating: T, for violence, mild language from time to time, and character death.**

**Setting: In the year 2005, 8 years after the events of Sly 3. Everything else is the same: Sly (now 39) and Carmelita (now 45) still work in law enforcement together (now married), Bentley and Penelope still work in crime together, and Murray and the other former members of the gang have gone their separate ways.**

**Characters: 10 characters seen before in the series return. Sly Cooper, Bentley, Murray, Penelope, Inspector Carmelita Montoya Fox, the Panda King, Dimitri Lousteau, the Guru, Inspector John Winthorp, and Chief Inspector Henry Barkley. The rest are all OC's.**

Target: Fox

_Paris, France; Monday, June 6, 2005, 10:06 P.M.…_

"…thus leaving approximately 40 to 50 people dead and over 300 injured. The governor declined to comment. Next, how the U.S. government recently caught a dangerous, would-be assassin …"

Sly shut off the TV.

"Man, there's absolutely nothing good on TV tonight. What else am I supposed to do while I feel like I'm gonna die?" After saying this, he groaned a little as, for the eighteenth time that night, he felt like he was going to throw up.

His wife, Inspector Carmelita Fox, brought him the newspaper.

"Maybe there's something good in today's paper? Heck, you may even settle for the comics."

At this, Sly chuckled lightly. "Hopefully."

She smiled back at him, then slowly turned around and headed back into the kitchen to resume her cooking. Sly watched her as she walked away, the light fragrance of her strawberry perfume still hanging in the air. He sighed. As long as she was here, he had all that he needed to make him feel better.

And the scent of her cooking didn't hurt, either.

"How much longer?"

"The pie will be done in about six minutes. The soup might take a little longer."

Yep. He definitely didn't want to go back on duty tomorrow.

The phone rang loudly.

Carmelita strode over and picked it up before the second ring.

"Yes?"

Sly could just barely hear the faint voice on the other end of the phone.

"Yeah. Uh-huh. Hm. I see. Alright, I'll be right there."

She hung up the phone.

"What is it?"

"Something's come up. Barkley wants to see me right away. I'll be back in a few." She put on her jacket and walked out the door.

She didn't bother to take her shock pistol.

She walked down the long corridor of the apartment building, stepping into the nearest elevator and pressing the button marked "G." She stood against the back wall as the elevator started down with a soft humming sound. It stopped at the fifth floor to allow a toad into the elevator. He nodded at her as he stepped in, and she returned the nod. He pressed the button for the second floor with a webbed finger, and the elevator started down again. When it arrived at his destination, he stepped out. The doors closed again, and Carmelita was alone in the elevator once more. Finally, it reached the ground. With a ding, the doors opened once more and she walked through the elegant lobby.

As she walked along the soft, carpeted floor, she nodded at the desk attendant, James.

"New shift treating you well?"

"Eh, I'll get by. Only an hour more. Where you heading?"

"Chief wants me."

"Well, it was nice knowing you." James said with a grin.

"Prepare to eat those words when I'm back in less than thirty minutes."

And with that, she stepped through the revolving glass doors of the lobby, noticing the final wave goodbye from James behind her.

Carmelita walked out into the clear night, pulling the jacket up closer to her face when she realized how strangely cold it was. She got into her police car and drove to HQ. She was dreading every second of it.

Chief Inspector Barkley always seemed to dislike Carmelita for three reasons: The first was The Ferrari Incident. She never even liked to think about that one anymore. Oh, how she wished she could rewind her life and delete that moment. It felt like centuries since it had happened, but it actually wasn't too long ago; the last job she had done, actually. It was a total disaster. The worst screw-up of her life by far.

The second, the one she hated the most, was the fact that she was a woman. Oh, that Barkley was old-schooled. He always generally favored the men, and never provided a good reason for it. As a matter of fact, he even tried to hide his obvious sexism. Carmelita shook her head at the thought.

The last, and probably foremost, was her many failed attempts to catch the Cooper Gang. Of course, she had made up for that with the "capture" of Sly, although Barkley wasn't too pleased with her tactics. He had said that he'd be keeping a much closer eye on both of them for quite a while.

Just yesterday, eight years later, Barkley had given her the evil eye in the hall.

But, despite the suspicion from her superior, Carmelita didn't care. She never did. Because now, she and Sly were both high-ranking police officers, and happily married.

Before she knew it, she was parked outside the HQ building. She paused for a moment after putting the car in Park and turning the ignition off. Then she unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, and got out of her car. Pressing the button on her keys, she could hear the single honk behind her.

She walked up the massive concrete steps and through the massive double doors. At the front desk, a familiar toad, who had been arrested for the umpteenth time, was handcuffed to his arresting officer. The officer was too busy filling out the paperwork to notice that the toad was stealthily picking his pocket. Carmelita slapped the toad's hand, and he dropped the officer's wallet. The officer turned around.

"Nice try, Joe."

"I can't help it! These fingers are-a itching to pick a pocket! I tells ya, I can't help it; it's in ma nature!"

"Not when it's the officer that you're chained to. That's what got you here in the first place." Then she turned to the young dog. "You really should pay more attention, Jacobs."

The officer blushed. Jacobs was new. A rookie that just joined about a week ago. The officer at the desk grinned as Jacobs bent down to pick up his wallet, obvious embarrassment on his face.

Carmelita walked past the three and towards Barkley's "lair". The place where many officers went in and never came out. She stopped at the large, brown door. The large, black words on the stained glass read CHIEF INSPECTOR HENRY BARKLEY. Every officer in Interpol waited for the day that those last two words would come off and someone else would come in.

Carmelita and many of her co-workers loved to point out the irony about how the two "teacher's pets" to Barkley now had ruined lives: The Contessa, now no longer with Interpol after she was finally released from prison, and one Captain Neyla, now deceased.

She slowly pushed open the door and instantly found herself gagging on a huge cloud of smoke that filled the office, as it usually did: Barkley's big, fat stogie. It reeked of tobacco.

"Quit whining, Fox!" said the voice from the depths of the smoke cloud. Carmelita waved her hand around in an attempt to swipe the smoke away from herself.

"Could you please turn on a fan, sir?" Carmelita begged in between coughs, gags, and wheezes.

"Crybaby." Barkley reached over and flipped the wall switch, instantly turning on the ceiling fan. The long, dusty, wooden blades slowly started rotating, helping to scatter some of the smoke. The smoke mostly cleared up, but a few remnants still lingered around. The cigar, with a glowing orange end, hung from his mouth.

"So," she cleared her throat again and sat down in one of the wooden chairs. "what's this all about?"

"Recent reports have confirmed some sort of unknown obstruction on the pinnacle of the Eiffel Tower, supposedly wrapped around the flagpole."

"'Unknown obstruction'?" She repeated. _You've got to be kidding._

"A large, unknown object of some kind. Several people have looked up there with binoculars, and claim that it's a…" Barkley swallowed, knowing that the following words were shocking. "…a body bag."

Just as he expected, Carmelita froze. There was a slight twitch in her right index finger, and she stuttered on the next sentence.

"E-excuse me?"

"You heard. It appeared there out of nowhere sometime this evening."

"How?"

"No one knows. Anyway, the people are concerned about this, Fox. They don't know for sure, but they say that it's large, bulky, and black. About the same size as a body bag. Even if it isn't what we think it is, it's still an insult to have some large piece of trash on top of the nation's proudest monument. We've been trying to keep quiet about it, but we have to do something now. Come daybreak, and the whole city sees it, we'll be in hot water for not acting sooner."

"So…you basically want me to go get it?"

"Bingo."

"What about Winthorp? Can't you get him to do it?"

"I tried calling him, but he didn't answer. God knows where that boy is."

"So why me? Why not Jacobs or anyone else?"

"I think you need some work. You haven't done a single job in almost two months. Ever since the Ferrari Incident…"

Carmelita winced.

"So, I want you to do a simple job that can't possibly go wrong, unlike…"

"The Ferrari Incident." Carmelita finished.

"Exactly." His face grew the more usual shade of purple. "And don't finish my sentences for me!"

"Sorry, sir. But, I'm just wondering: why send a police officer to clear it up? This hardly falls under the category of police work. This is more a job for average sanitation workers. Like, what if it _is_ just a grocery bag blown up there by the wind?"

"Look. Whatever it is, it's way too large to be any of those things. Listen, I've been on the force for forty years. I've seen a lot of strange things. Including the strange places murderers hide the bodies of their victims."

"So you're telling me that you think…"

"Look, we're not taking any chances here. You know how easily people get scared when they see or think of something that reminds them of a terrible tragedy? Ever since the Ferrari Incident, people in that neighborhood nearly piss their paints when they see a Ferrari drive by."

"What does this have to do with the current situation?"

"All I'm saying is that if people see it and begin to think that it's a body or something, and _another_ brutal murder has happened, they're gonna freak! And we'll get the blame for not dealing with it sooner and trying to prevent the panic! So, you're gonna get up in that helicopter of yours, and you're gonna go get that thing off the Eiffel Tower, NOW."

"Yes, Henry."

Barkley almost exploded.

"YOU… DO…NOT…CALL…ME…BY…MY…FIRST…NAME…GOT IT!"

Carmelita almost flipped backwards in her chair. She had seen other officers even lower than Inspector call him Henry, and he wouldn't get mad. Why did he always single her out?

She already knew.

"Go."

"Yes, _Chief Inspector_."

She was only too quick to leave. Jumping from her chair, she bolted for the door.

"And close that door behind you!"

Carmelita slammed the wooden door behind her. She climbed up to the roof and to the helicopter-landing pad, where her chopper was waiting. The very same chopper that had seen so much action in the past; from engaging in an intense and deadly dogfight with Clock-La, to flying over Paris and landing among the ruins of Arpeggio's blimp, to shooting down at two gondolas racing through the canals of Venice at high speed. The small blue chopper had some bruises, but still had it where it counted. She climbed in and started it up. It was choppy for a moment, like a stubborn car. But, soon enough, the blades started spinning, the rotors producing the chopping noise as they sliced through the night air. It slowly lifted off, and within a minute, she was soaring over the sleeping city of Paris. As she flew towards the famous landmark, she reflected on her life working with Interpol.

Carmelita had worked with Interpol for nearly eighteen years. She was forty-five years old, and still working as if she was the enthusiastic 27-year old who had joined back in 1987. That was because she loved her job. She had wanted to join the force mainly since her father was also an Inspector for Interpol back when he was alive. He died when she was only seven. Car crash. High-speed pursuit. He was chasing a bank robber and spun out on a turn because the road was wet from a heavy rainstorm at the time. He spun out…right into a gas station. All in the immediate area died. The criminal got away. Ever since then, she swore that she would be like her father, and dedicate her life to stopping all criminals and making the world a better place to live.

Then she met Sly Cooper.

It was a calm night. She was a young private, only a year into the business. It was a huge opera, and the star, a whiny elephant, had a valuable diamond that she did not want stolen. Chief Inspector Barkley wanted to see Carmelita guard this diamond with her life. This was her chance to become Inspector, like her father. She then found out about a thief prowling the area, and had tied him up in the janitor's closet. When she looked back at that, she felt ashamed. The janitor's closet? Seriously! Sly had easily broken out, and the diamond was gone, however, Sly had actually not stolen it, but the stage manager, Pierre. Sly had tripped Pierre so that Carmelita would capture him and get rewarded. He had felt sorry for her after her boss screamed at her for letting him get away. Barkley, of course, was amazed that she had captured him, and promoted her. She never forgot that night.

Her career had improved greatly since then. She had busted over fifty criminals in a year and a half. She became one of the finest officers in Interpol. Captain David Reilly had once said, "You're our golden officer." She was only living proof that you could still gain respect despite being the youngest officer on the force, not to mention one of the only women. The only other officer in Interpol history to come even close to her accomplishments was…Neyla. Carmelita dared not even think of that name. The eternal, undying hatred she felt for that witch, with her manipulative ways and such calm complexity…Whenever this horrible memory returned, Carmelita just kept reminding herself that at least Neyla was dead. Killed nearly eleven years ago in what officials had classified as "The Clockwerk Incident." Dead. Out of the way.

Returning to the present, she continued to think about her career. Yes, there were many highs, but there were the lows, too. Constable John Winthorp had a crush on her. She pretended to ignore it, as she certainly did not return the feelings. Winthorp was a wimp. He had never really succeeded in a real serious mission. That was why she thought this was more Winthorp's job, as a lackey. But Barkley said that he wasn't answering the calls.

_Strange_. She thought. _John's usually more eager to do a job. And he _always_ responds to a call._

Most of her career had been spent trying to track down and capture Sly Cooper and his gang. She had tried and failed so many times. Then the Kaine Island Incident happened. She had eventually tracked down Sly and his cohorts to that virtually unknown island in the South Pacific, and when she arrived, Sly was about to be eaten by a massive monster controlled by a mad scientist. She had defeated the creature and saved Sly, at the cost of every single one of her mercenaries. Later that same night, she had blasted her way into a secret cave in the island and found Sly confronting the same mad scientist that tried to kill him. After he blasted Sly with a rocket that was meant for her, she had attacked the man and defeated him. But when she checked on Sly, he had amnesia from the blast. That was the most perfect and easiest opportunity in her life, and she took it.

She told Sly that he was her partner, Constable Cooper. And he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

The aftermath was disastrous, though. Communications had been severed, and thus, upon leaving the island to return to Paris, they had left the island completely unguarded in the darkness for approximately three weeks. When they finally returned, most of the island was in total ruin. Most of the buildings and equipment had been trashed, either by the storm or by the chain reaction of collapses, explosions, and subsequent fires caused when the vault caved in. They dug out much of the rubble in an attempt to reach the amazing vault, and upon finally re-entering it, they had found that quite a bit of the treasure, rather than being crushed or destroyed, was gone. Undoubtedly the work of Cooper's partners, who had also escaped. But that wasn't the worst of it. Among the ruins and wreckage, the recovery teams found very strange and unusual technology on that island, well beyond the current standard of technology. And the army of mutants that had attacked them numerous times; they had once been innocent creatures, but had been blended together and mutated horrifically…it was apparently very fascinating, scientifically and biologically. One of the lead scientists studying the finds had said that it was something out of _Star Trek_.

But, ultimately, Interpol had no say in the matter. That was left up to Chile, whose jurisdiction the previously uncharted island had fallen under. They decided that the technology was too dangerous and unheard of. They had the few intact pieces of equipment, as well as some of the mutants' remains, immediately carted away to an unknown facility to be kept secret from the public "indefinitely." And their "disposal" of the island…Carmelita could never forget those images and brief, scratchy video clips from when the island was bombed repeatedly, all taken from one helicopter that was allowed to videotape the process from a distance. All of the remaining rubble, any trace or hint of what had once been there…completely annihilated. So, even though many questions were still left unanswered, Interpol closed the book on the case.

So eight years later, she and Sly were happily married, and he was now a great cop.

Maybe even better than she could have ever been.

Her thoughts were broken when she realized that she was finally right next to the Eiffel Tower. She put the helicopter on autopilot so that it could hover in place.

She unbuckled her seat strap and went to the side of the chopper. She grabbed the doorframe with one hand, and stretched the other hand towards the dark object that was wrapped around the flagpole. She grabbed it and started to lift it up.

_Geez, it's heavy!_

When she lifted it up, she carefully held it up with one hand, and reached for her flashlight with the other. She turned on the beam and pointed it at the object to get a better view of the thing. Sure enough, it was a large, black, plastic bag, nearly twice as large as the average body bag. It appeared to have been impaled on the flagpole. The bag itself was nearly ten feet long, drooping down over the edges. There were two large lumps in the bag. And there was a zipper on the one end.

"Oh, boy." She muttered.

She had to get the bag into the chopper without dropping it. But the way it was impaled on the flagpole would make it very difficult to get it off in the first place.

Her eyes returned to the zipper. She figured that she might as well remove whatever was in there, and then simply yank the bag off. She took a deep breath, tucked the flashlight under her arm, then reached out with her spare hand and took the zipper between her index finger and her thumb. She slowly pulled the zipper back, the zipping sound slow and labored as the rusty handle moved over the ridges. She opened the hole about a foot and a half. Grabbing the flashlight again, she aimed the beam directly inside.

She let out a blood-curling scream.

It was Winthorp. His face was covered in blood, one of his eyes was missing, and the top of his head had been ripped open. She could barely see the white of his skull beneath the blood-stained fur. His remaining eye and his mouth were wide open, his lifeless face a frozen mask of shock and horror.

She was so stunned that she lost her grip on the flashlight. The metal appliance plummeted straight towards the earth, plunging her surroundings into darkness. Carmelita immediately stumbled backwards, away from the hideous sight. Before she knew it, she was lying down in shock on the metal floor of the helicopter. She couldn't believe what she just saw. She was stuttering wildly, unable to move or think straight.

Just then, she saw the second, unknown lump in the bag start to rustle around. Her mind raced when the first thought was that it was a second body. But no; it was moving around too much. It moved from the one end of the bag to the end she had just opened. Suddenly, Winthorp's mangled face was pushed right through the open hole in the bag, leaping out at her. She saw a blade slice up from inside the bag and extend the hole without the help of the zipper. When it was large enough, the rest of the weasel's body was shoved out, and Carmelita watched in horror as it followed the flashlight down to the ground, landing among the shrubbery below.

She looked up and saw it, half hidden in the darkness of the bag. A face; perfectly normal and untouched, unlike Winthorp's. It was firm and tough, its features sharp and unmoving at first. The pale yellow light coming from the Eiffel Tower below cast a half-glow over the face from underneath, creating a fiendish ghoul effect. The cavernous eyes remained in blackness.

Before she could react, the face leapt out at her, tackling her and driving her against the metal wall opposite the open door of the helicopter. She slammed against the cold metal, wincing hard in pain. She tried to look up at her attacker, but the only thing she saw was the flash of a stainless steel blade slicing through the chilly night air, arcing down towards her. The hot stab of pain in her chest immediately rendered her motionless; frozen in terror and shock. It was almost as if her mind was on a two-second shutdown mode before she recovered. After the first few seconds of numbness, the pain blasted back, harder than ever. It was a mix of a great heaviness, pressure thrown against her chest, and a sharp stinging sensation. She found herself unable to scream, unable to gasp, unable to make any sound. She was barely able to breathe, taking sharp intakes of breath that died before they came out of her throat, over and over again. She could feel a warm liquid oozing from her chest, soaking her shirt, spreading along her torso. She knew that it was her own blood.

In her last moments, Carmelita forced her eyes to return to her attacker. She got one final, clear view of his face, before everything turned into eternal darkness.

…

He looked down at the woman whose life he had just ended. The steak knife was protruding from her chest, blood soaking the blade. The black handle was the only part that had not been colored red. The blood was now dripping down off of her body, onto the metal floor where it trickled along in thin streaks. A stream of blood was also pouring from her mouth as well, which hung half-closed. Her lifeless eyes were still looking up at him, wide in shock and disbelief. No doubt the attack was so sudden that she didn't even know what had happened until it was too late.

He could feel the sudden surge, the strange feeling in the air, whenever a life was ended abruptly and suddenly. It gave him pleasure, satisfaction in knowing that he had succeeded, and that the victim was truly dead. He had fulfilled his job.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, he looked back at the crude body bag impaled on the flagpole. The slightest hint of disgust was expressed on his face as he thought about the crudeness and lowness of hiding in a body bag, of all places. But nonetheless, it had made his attack more unpredictable than ever. It was perfect. He casually leaned out over the edge and could barely see the body of the first officer on the ground. He saw several pedestrians nearby, casually strolling along, unknowingly approaching it.

Time was running out.

Without any emotion or change of expression, he grabbed the woman's lifeless form with his gloved hands and carried it over to the edge. After a brief moment, he released his grip and watched it fall, almost like a missile, towards the unsuspecting civilians. He then turned and approached the helicopter's controls, casually slipping into the pilot's seat. He studied the dashboard for a few moments before he switched the autopilot off. He then grabbed the steering mechanism and slowly moved the helicopter away from the Eiffel Tower, off into the dark Paris night.

He could faintly hear the piercing scream behind and below him as he fled.

**To be continued…**

**Author's Note: So there you have it, readers. The first chapter. There are 23 chapters in total, and a new one will be uploaded every three days. So, when you're done unwrapping Christmas presents, eating Christmas breakfast/lunch/dinner, visiting relatives, going to Church, or whatever you do on Sunday and Christmas, tune in Sunday, December 25, 2011, for the next chapter.**


	2. Mourning

Mourning

_Paris, France; Thursday, June 9, 8:32 A.M.…_

"…but Inspector Fox was much more than an officer…"

"…I remember when I first called that fine officer into my office to tell her about her promotion…"

"…has always been eternally devoted to…"

All through Barkley's boring, typical, and obviously fill-in-the-blanks speech, the many civilians in black outfits stood on either side of the street, and police officers with their shields covered stood in the middle of the massive street in neat formations and standing rigidly at attention. There was a low, heavy feeling hanging in the air as the sun beat down on the spectators. The humid air made the situation feel even worse. Many of the rookie officers were constantly fidgeting, unable to bear the heat. Many of the civilians bore umbrellas to protect them from the sun. Many of the senior officers had the faintest hint of sorrow in their eyes at the memory of the late officer they were remembering now.

But one officer among all of the others was, by far, the most distressed. But not on the outside. This officer stood perfectly still; unmoving, no slight shuffling of fingers, no adjusting, not even the twitch of an eye or the slightest of sniffs. He was able to suppress the sickness he had felt not too long ago, the disease practically driven out by the shock of it all. He stood, eyes blankly looking ahead, facing the podium where the Chief Inspector stood, along with the small makeshift memorial: A portrait of the late Carmelita Fox, surrounded by single flowers and wreaths. The casket lay before it, flowers covering it as well. A second casket, containing Winthorp's corpse, was alongside it, and Barkley had already given his equally monotone speech about the less-than-popular weasel before moving on to Carmelita.

Had it really been less than 72 hours since the tragedy? The motionless officer remembered how it had all come down: First hearing the sirens in the middle of the night, not too far off, assuming that it was nothing big. Then, early in the morning after, he received the call from Barkley. Beyond that, it all seemed to move by so fast. The briefing, the autopsy, the discussions about how it could've happened or who could've been responsible. He would never forget that moment when the white sheet was pulled back, and there she lay. Carmelita, his wife. Carmelita, the woman he had loved and lived with for eight years. Lying on that metal gurney; cold, motionless, lifeless. The wound in her chest had been cleaned, but it still left the ragged, gaping hole where the blade had perfectly pierced her heart with such precision and accuracy. The blood-stained clothes, the pale, lifeless eyes, still wide-eyed in shock as she witnessed her own final moments unfolding right before her. Now, the only witness to her murder – herself – was dead.

Then, before he knew it, a powerful blast rang through the street and shattered his thoughts. Barkley's speech had ended, and the second twenty-one gun salute had started. At the second firing, his vision finally started to grow blurred. By the end of the third round, and when the seven officers had returned their weapons to the order arms position, the tears were streaming freely down Sly Cooper's face.

After the end of the ceremony, many of his fellow officers and friends came up to him, offering their condolences. The repeated thanks' had been rolling off his tongue again and again with each person, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time, not wanting to bother listening to any of them. Especially not the dirt-bag Barkley.

Eventually, mercifully, he managed to slip away from the crowd and the heat. The entire trip back to his apartment was a blur, his movements like that of a machine. He dragged himself up the steps, through the apartment, responding with a dull thanks to James's condolence, just like all the others. He sunk back against the wall of the elevator, the low hum being the only sound in the elevator, even more so than his own, silent breathing. He trudged through the corridor on his floor, turned the key, and slid into the apartment, the door thudding behind him. He discarded the heavy, hot uniform; jacket, shirt, hat, pants. He stood in his sweaty white undershirt and boxers. He fell back into the couch; the couch he had been sitting on when she left him, never to return again.

As he stared dully, everything started to come together, after floating around dully like a loose dream. Dreadfully, painfully, the events of the last few days came slamming back with the impact of a locomotive. The awful realization finally dawned on him, and he knew at last what it meant.

The love of his life was truly dead. Never to return again. Never to hold him or kiss him again. She was gone. Their short marriage had come to an end, and he would never be the same again.

With all of this compacted into his mind at once, it finally overwhelmed him. He broke down, head dropping down into his hands, and the few tears from earlier now became fountains, pouring a nonstop, steady stream of wetness down his cheeks, matting down his fur, into his hands, and onto the floor. He groaned and sobbed loudly, unable to contain himself. He cried harder than he ever had in his whole life. Maybe, just maybe, even more so than when his father died.

_Hours later…_

Only after the sun set, when darkness started to settle over Paris and the lights came winking on all across the city, did the floodgates finally started to close. The tears stopped streaming, but his face and hands, as well as part of the carpeted floor below him, between his feet, were soaked. His eyes were so bloodshot that there wasn't a hint of white among the pale, strained red. He sniffled hard and slowly, trying to contain himself.

Then a voice. A familiar, nasally voice. The one voice he least expected to hear. He never expected to hear. He thought he'd never hear again.

"Hello, Sly."

Sly lifted his head up, glancing in the direction of the open balcony, where the window sat open, the red curtains blowing lightly in the wind. There, among the curtains, stood – or rather, _sat_ – his old, life-long friend Bentley.

The look of shock on the raccoon's face was one that Bentley knew wasn't out of the simple fact that someone was suddenly in his apartment after the greatest loss in his life.

"I know that you know who I am, Sly."

"Of course I do." Sly said between sniffles. He slowly got to his feet and slowly walked over to Bentley.

"It was all over the news. Two officers suddenly dead, mutila-, er, never mind. But, you get the idea. When they said who one of the officers was, I couldn't begin to imagine what you were feeling. Penelope told me that I should wait a bit before coming to see you aga-."

The turtle's words were suddenly cut off when his old friend instantly grabbed him in an embrace, the wheelchair creaking back. For the first time, Bentley was seeing his old friend, who always stayed cool, calm, and collected, break down right in front of him.

"I just…it's so…I never…it's…" Sly just couldn't collect a full sentence.

"Sly, I understand. Penelope and I saw it on the news back home. The whole story has been all over, but when I saw the name of Inspector Fox, I couldn't begin to imagine how you were feeling."

Sly slowly pulled away, tears forming up again.

"You're probably the one person I actually want to see right now, you know that?"

"Yeah. I know."

Sly stumbled back to the couch and sat down again. His head was in his hands, but his face remained just above them. "It all seemed so…so…sudden. Unreal. It was like a dream. A nightmare."

"Sly, I get it. It was the exact same when…"

"I want blood."

Bentley was suddenly taken aback by the sudden ferocity coming from his friend.

"What?"

"I want the head of whoever did this to Carmelita. That person has crossed the line. All others who tried to do the same thing paid hard for it. Clockwerk tried it, and he paid for it. Neyla tried it, and she paid for it. Dr. M tried it, and he paid for it. This person should be no exception."

"But Sly…you have no leads. No proof. No way of tracking…"

"The only piece of evidence is easily the most crucial: The knife. There has to be something on it."

"Haven't you already examined it, along with all other possible evidence?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing. No fingerprints, no hair, nothing. The monster must've been wearing gloves, and been very careful of everything he touched. Even beyond that; Carmelita's helicopter has been missing ever since then."

"Well, then I guess…"

"No. No guessing. I _know_ that there must be some kind of a clue. A trace. A single hint of who this murderer is, or where they're coming from."

"But if the police couldn't find…"

"That's where _you_ come in."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I want you to inspect it. Examine it. Study it. Find anything that you can find. You're easily much more capable than those duds over in Forensics."

"I don't know, Sly. If you were caught trying to take it…"

"I won't get caught. That Evidence Locker has very little surveillance. I can easily get it. But I need to know that you're willing to do this for me, pal."

"I'm not willing to risk you getting caught and losing your job and reputation. But I do have an alternative."

"Anything that will get that knife thoroughly examined. And even if the knife doesn't yield results, then I'm sure that we can find something else. We just need to keep trying. Because mark my words, I will personally find this person – hunt them down to the end of the earth – and murder them, as soon as we find out who they are."

Bentley shuddered.

"But for now, we start with the basics. So, you're in?"

"I guess so."

"Good. We'll start tomorrow."

…

The visitor returned to the balcony. He watched closely as, unbelievably, two bursts of orange appeared on each side of the wheelchair and propelled him up off the balcony, sending him gliding over the 80-foot gap between it and the next building, landing safely on the adjoining rooftop and wheeling away.

The jittery mole turned and dashed around the corner, racing back down the alley, hanging a right into another alley. He continued down this one, which seemed to stretch on endlessly, until he arrived at a figure in a dark black trench coat, with a matching black panama hat.

"Alright, I saw him."

"Who?"

"A visitor. He jumped down onto the guy's balcony and went inside."

"Did they talk? Could you make out anything they said?"

"You kidding me? They were eight stories up! How the hell was I supposed to hear what they were saying?"

"Alright, alright. Keep your voice down, you crazy fool. Otherwise I'd have to…reconsider your reward."

The figure slowly reached into his trench coat pocket and ruffled his hand around, crunching up the contents and making the clear and distinct sound of paper cash.

The mole's eyes widened.

"Oh, right. Sorry, man."

"Just tell me everything. The more you give me, the more I give you."

"OK. So it was a short guy. I think it might've been a turtle. Yeah, I think that's it. He had glasses on."

"Alright, go on." He slowly started to pull his hand out of the pocket.

"He was in a wheelchair of some kind. But let me tell you; this was a wheelchair out of _Back to the Future_."

"Oh, really? How so?"

"I swear to God, it had rocket boosters or something on it! There were bursts of fire on each side, and it made him fly over the rooftops."

"Are you on something?"

"No, no, man! I swear it! I saw it with my own eye!" As the mole said this, he gestured a dirty finger at the only eye he had that wasn't covered by an eye patch.

"Two eyes are better than one, you know."

"But this one eye hasn't let me down before."

"How about the time you thought you saw an alien?"

"Damn it, I told you that I DID see it."

"Alright, whatever. After all, that _was_ over 13 years ago. Anything else?"

"Nope. That's all. Turtle, glasses, wheelchair that could fly."

"Alright. Here you are."

He pulled out a black-gloved hand, clenched into a fist. Sticking out from it was a massive wad of money. The mole was all too quick to snatch it out of his hands and run off.

The figure stuck his hands back into his pocket, with one last look back in the direction of the fleeing mole, he turned around and headed further down the alley.

Eventually, he arrived at the waiting police car. He opened the door, slid casually into the passenger seat, and closed the door behind him. He removed the gloves one at a time, stuffed them back into his pocket, and removed his hat and tossed it into the backseat.

"Well?" The driver sitting in the seat next to him asked.

"I think we've got us a strong lead here." The monkey in the black trench coat responded.

"What kind of lead?" The mouse shot back.

"Apparently, Inspector Cooper had a visitor tonight."

"A visitor?"

"Yes. Pierre described it the best he could."

"Hold on, it was _Pierre_? How can you trust what Pierre said? The guy's got only one eye left! Besides, he's been wrong before."

"Out of all the figurative moles I've worked with, he's the best. I.e., he's been wrong the least amount of times."

"How do you know he wasn't on something again?"

"I could smell no alcohol, and I saw no signs or other symptoms of drug use. He was clean tonight. Besides, his description was too coincidental."

"Too coincidental?"

"According to Pierre, the visitor to Cooper's apartment was a glasses-wearing turtle. In a wheelchair. A wheelchair that could fly."

"You're kidding, right? You absolutely sure he was sober?"

"Many police reports and reliable eyewitness accounts in the past were able to confirm that the turtle had a flying wheelchair."

"No, not that. I mean, his overall description. It perfectly matches…"

"His former partner and member of the Cooper gang, Bentley."

"I knew it." The mouse muttered as he slammed the wheel with a fist.

"So, after 8 straight years, our suspicions have been confirmed. Sly Cooper has been faking his amnesia."

"Well dang it, Eugene, the hell didn't you give him a camera or something?"

"First of all, Glen: Pierre can barely walk straight even when he's sober. I doubt he could take a good picture if his life depended on it. Second, it was eight stories above the ground. Third, what if they were to see the flash?"

"Well, what evidence do we have then? We can't possibly report this to Barkley, and say that the only proof we've got is the word of a bum on the streets that we've been working with almost illegally for years. It would expose the entire ring of moles you've got roaming the streets, alleys, and sewers of Paris."

"Which is why we're not telling him. But I think we've got enough circumstantial evidence to support this. Just look at the facts: Now, after his wife is mysteriously killed. Now, after the one and only reason he gave up his life of crime to join the other side has been removed from his life. It's too obvious, and I think Barkley will agree."

"Well, what do we do? As long as he doesn't do anything illegal, he could still be considered clean…"

"I have the feeling that he's going to take it upon himself to do what the law has failed to do. He's gonna find some way to exact his own revenge on whoever did this, and he's going to enlist the help of his former partners, and perform it in a way that is perfectly illegal."

"Are you sure?"

"Like I said, with Fox dead, he has nothing holding him back. He'll do it, I'm sure."

"So what do we do about it?"

The monkey turned away for a moment, looking out the window at the grungy, steaming alley just a few feet away. He paused in thought.

Then he turned back. "We'll talk to Barkley. We won't mention tonight, but we'll ask him for permission to keep a special close eye on Cooper. I have a feeling that he'll be on the move soon, undoubtedly after asking Barkley for official leave of absence. We can keep ourselves updated on whatever flight arrangements or other modes of transportation he uses and wherever he goes. We just need to tail him long enough to catch him breaking a law, and then we nail him."

"And then…?"

"And then, Glen, you and I become heroes. The men who caught and exposed the Fake Forgetter. The man who fooled Interpol and his own wife for almost a decade. We'll both receive great honor, several accolades, and perhaps even a promotion or two. The two officers who uncovered the biggest scandal in the history of the Interpol Paris branch."

The mouse grinned. "Sounds good, Eugene. Let's get back to HQ."

The mouse started the engine, which coughed and sputtered the first two times before finally catching. The car pulled away from the alley entrance and headed down the cobblestone road back towards the massive headquarters building.

**To be continued…**

**Author's Note: Sorry for the one-day delay. Complications with getting a brand new computer, transferring the files, yadda-yadda-yadda...**

**In response to a question posed in one of the last chapter's reviews, which pointed out that my timeline is "off," as Sly 3 reportedly took place in 2005, yet this story depicts it as taking place in 1997. My answer is this: That's my own interpretation of the Sly Cooper timeline. I always imagined that that series generally took place in the 90's, and I also drew some conclusions by the dates provided in the backstory of Jean Bison in Sly 2 (frozen in 1852, thawed out 120 years later, placing his thawing out in 1972, give him no more than 20 years to have met and joined the KLAWW Gang and start enacting his plans for Canada, and so on). So that's my own interpretation.**


	3. Target: King

Target: King

_Kun-Lun Mountains, China; Thursday, June 9, 7:18 P.M.…_

The Panda King sat calmly, quietly in his rocking chair in his small house. The creaking of the wooden chair was his only company, and the only sound in his home.

He glanced back at his collection of fireworks that he had stored over the years. Many different types, different shapes, different sizes, as well as a few prototypes, were spread out on tables or hanging from the ceiling, or hung from the wall. In the center of the room sat a massive, four foot-tall barrel of gun powder. On the small table next to it was the massive, red cylinder that it would go in. It was approximately two and a half feet long, and nearly a foot in diameter. Next to the cylinder, the triangular cap. That would be his final one before he retired. His finest creation. His last firework. This new model would be the largest he ever made, and was designed to unleash a flurry of colors and streaks once set off. The numerous tests had prepared for this one model, to be launched at the upcoming New Year's Eve Festival.

He turned and looked forward once again. He sighed, thinking ahead to exactly how the ceremony would go. How he would set it off. How proud he would be. The praise he would receive…

Ever since the failed Cooper Vault job, he had returned to his life of solitude and no crime in the mountains of China. After nearly a decade, much had changed. His daughter, Jing-King, had become married now. He found himself all alone now. Even his sister, who had taken care of Jing-King in the few years after her kidnapping, had moved into the city. After that, he remained in the small hut right next door to the hut where his sister and daughter had lived, which sat empty and he often used as a second house. He was the only person living in this area, the nearest settlement at least fifty miles…

He suddenly heard a loud creaking behind him. He turned his head around towards the back wall…

…only to see that the sound was the wooden shutters opening on the window in the back wall, just over the table where his prized firework sat.

He slowly lifted himself out of the chair and lumbered over to the window. He leaned outside and scanned the area, searching for any sign of an intruder. There was nothing.

_The wind._ He thought. He reached out and closed the shutters. He turned back around and returned to his chair.

…

Just below the window, wearing a special black jumpsuit that made him blend in with the night, he released a very slight exhalation of breath out of relief. He had not counted on a gust of wind coming up at that moment to nearly blow his cover. He turned around and peered through a small hole in the wood beneath the window, just large enough for his eye to see through.

The figure eyed the unknowing panda, rocking peacefully in an old, wooden chair. Despite his peaceful demeanor, he knew that this man was yet another target on his list, and had to die.

He slowly looked around the interior of the hut through the hole and studied the surroundings. Just as he had suspected, it was a time bomb waiting to explode. The explosives, fireworks, and this large barrel full of gun powder placed almost too conveniently against the back wall, barely a foot from the hole he was peering through. Almost instantly he recognized the perfect set-up. Not only would it be effective, quick, and easy, but it would look just like an accident. The explosion would surely be massive enough to destroy the bullet, and no one would ever know.

A slight grin formed on his face as he slowly turned and silently treaded back up the hill, to the small ledge where his newly-stolen helicopter was waiting for him, along with his own personal arsenal.

He slid open the large metal door, and scanned through his many weapons. He eventually found the one: the .45 long-slide. It was a sleek, silver handgun, with one powerful hit. He plucked it out of its place in the row of other, similar weapons, also grabbing the single bullet that was alongside it, and loaded it. The weapon in hand, he turned and crept slowly up to the rock ledge that overlooked the small valley where the Panda King's house sat.

He squatted down, his feet bending as he slowly maintained a firm military stance. His left knee stuck out to his side, his right knee in front of him. He grasped the handle firmly in his right hand, his left hand clasping around it to secure it. He slowly placed his right index finger on the trigger. He stretched his arms out in front of him, straightening them out so that they were nearly like tree limbs. He slowly and casually rested the gun on top of the rock ledge, keeping it steady and unwavering.

His gun was specially equipped with laser sighting and a military scope. The moment he applied even the slightest pressure to the trigger, the thin red beam appeared from just above the barrel, its small red dot landing right where the bullet would hit. This only confirmed accuracy, in addition to the crosshairs of the scope.

With these two effective tools, he carefully aimed his weapon at the small hole in the wood that he had earlier used as his peephole. Looking through the scope, he could see right through it with an enhanced, higher quality image. Through that hole, he could see the side of the massive barrel of gun powder.

His target in sight, he gave the trigger a slight squeeze, causing the red beam to appear. The small dot flickered into sight, planting itself on the wood just millimeters to the left of the hole. He slowly shifted the barrel over about a hair's width, moving the dot right into the hole, dropping farther out of sight and landing on the barrel itself. He held it steadier than ever, keeping it from deviating for even a moment.

This was it.

He knew that, in order to ensure 100% accuracy, he had to remain perfectly still. He slowly inhaled a long breath, paused for a moment, then exhaled just as slowly, relaxing his body, releasing him of all physical tension. After the exhalation, he froze instantly. His eye stayed behind the scope, with the hole in the wall lined up perfectly in the center of his crosshairs, and with the motionless red dot only corroborating that his target was in his sights.

Then, with one final effortless motion, he squeezed the trigger completely. The lack of recoil due to his firm grip allowed him a clear view of the ensuing explosion.

The bullet found its mark, sliding effortlessly through the hole without even scraping the side, and planting right in the barrel. The hit ignited the gun powder, creating an incredible fireball which set off a chain reaction of all the other explosives in the room, immediately consuming the entire house. The old, retired criminal in the rocking chair didn't even have time to react before the explosion ended his life.

He watched as the explosion completely consumed the entire small house, debris and burning wood flying in all directions. Several small fires suddenly appeared in the plants and scenery around the explosion, and the fireball itself slowly ascended into the sky, turning from a ball into a mushroom cloud, the orange giving way to pitch black. The sound resonated throughout the valley, eventually echoing away and vanishing just as the cloud itself vanished upward.

His second job done, he slowly holstered the gun and stood up, looking down on his accomplishment with satisfaction. He turned around and returned to the helicopter, pulling the heavy door closed behind him and sliding into the pilot's seat. He reached to start the engine, then stopped.

He had all the time in the world, of course. The house had been built in this small, isolated valley specifically because it was so deserted and away from civilization. The nearest village was many miles away, and it could be at least several weeks before someone finally caught on. But he still wanted to vacate the premises immediately.

With the time he had, he slowly reached into his pocket and removed a small slip of paper that had been perfectly folded over four times. He unfolded it bit by bit. Written on it, in one perfectly-aligned column in the center of the sheet, were seven names, all of them written in a very neat, old-fashioned style of Cursive.

Sly Cooper

Bentley

Penelope

Murray

?

Lousteau

King

Fox

Similarly to how the last name was neatly crossed off, he took an 18k gold pen that was also in his pocket, and pressed the small button at the end of the pen, causing the tip to pop out. Holding the paper steady against his knee, he slowly and firmly drew the tip of the pen across the paper, dashing a neat, perfect line through the second-to-last name on the list.

King

He then neatly refolded the paper exactly as it was before and returned it to his pocket, the pen accompanying it. He then reached over and started up the engine, the propeller blades slowly coming to life, then spinning faster and faster until they were a blur. Slowly lifting up the throttle, he lifted the helicopter up off the ground, slowly bringing it up past the trees that hid it from view. Once he had cleared the trees and the small mountains nearby, he immediately thrust the chopper forward, leaving the valley of destruction behind.

**To be continued…**


	4. Discovery

Discovery

_Interpol Headquarters, Paris, France; Friday, June 10, 8:13 A.M…_

If there was one thing about this place that Sly could not stand, it was the onslaught of condolences and apologies. He knew that it was all in good nature, but it started to get just plain ridiculous. Every five seconds as he walked towards the Forensics Wing, someone stopped him just to say the usual.

"I'm so sorry."

"I understand how you feel."

"How awful."

"Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful."

"I apologize for your loss."

Sly tried to return an honest thanks to everyone who tried to comfort him, but he started to get sick of it.

Then, mercifully, he arrived at the Lab. He pushed open the door, entering into the Forensics Wing's preparation room. Here, he washed his hands in a metal sink as per procedure. Then he donned a pair of latex gloves from a box sitting on a shelf, and also strapped on a surgical mask. He entered through the next door, now heading into the Laboratory wing. Here, a pale blue light was cast over everything, almost like a freezer room or something. He walked past the many doors on both sides, until he finally reached the one: 304. Just as he started to push the door open, there was a rapid slapping of shoes behind him, followed by, "Hey, wait up! Mr. Cooper!"

Sly sighed an exasperated sigh. _Just when I thought I was home free…_

He turned, and watched as the geeky, lanky Wren approached him. In addition to a matching pair of gloves and a surgical mask (which was pulled up onto his head), he was also wearing a white lab coat that needed some good ironing, with a black undershirt and brown, creased pants. He had a pair of thick, square glasses, along with a constant sniffling in-between words. Wren was one of the most senior Forensic scientists, but he sure found a way to annoy the hell out of anyone. For that reason, some called him "Wren the Wretch." He didn't look like much, but at least he knew his stuff.

He finally reached Sly, taking a few moments to catch his breath. "Mr.…Mr. Cooper. I'm sorry, I just couldn't help noticing you in here, and I just wanted to see if you were heading for the lab with all the evidence from…well, what happened four days ago, in it."

With a slight roll of his eyes, Sly replied, "Yes, Wren. I was, and am."

"Oh, goody! I can help you out no problem! If you need help or assistance with anything…"

"All I really need is your expertise. Now let's go."

Pushing the door open, he walked into a lab just like all of the others: There were several shelves full of equipment on one side, and a stack of lockers on the other, each with a padlock on it. There was a metal table in the center of the room, with a single bright lamp over it.

Wren immediately walked over to the stack of lockers. "So, which one are you interested in?"

"The knife. That's all."

"Yes, yes, of course." Wren grabbed the padlock on the locker marked "129." After dialing in the three-digit code, he pulled it off and opened up the small, metal door. He slowly reached in, pulling his surgical mask down, and grabbed the object inside. He slowly slid it out.

Sly's face hardened into a fierce scowl, his eyes burning with hatred as he once again laid his eyes on the hideous object that had ended Carmelita's life. It was an ugly steak knife with ridged edges and a thick black handle. It still gleamed, after all of Carmelita's crusted blood had been scraped off. It had been swabbed and scanned dozens of times, but the handle was as devoid of fingerprints as the Sahara Desert was as devoid of footprints after a windstorm.

Wren carefully laid it out on the table with a clink. He adjusted the massive lamp and held it over the blade, flicking it on and casting a bright glow on the table.

"So, what do you want to do first, Mr. Cooper?"

Despite the fact that Wren was just trying to be respectful, Sly had to first say, "Alright, Wren; first of all, you can just call me Sly, alright?" 

"Um, OK. So, what do you want to do first, Sly?"

"What are your best techniques for finding a trace of DNA or any other kind of evidence?"

"Here's a new type of swabbing." He quickly moved over to the shelf full of equipment and grabbed two things: A long, glass vial containing a phosphorescent, light-green substance inside it. The other was a large, glass beaker which contained many Q-tips. He brought them both back and set them on the table.

"See, here's how it works. I dip one of these into the vial, like this." He demonstrated by removing a Q-tip and carefully dipping it into the vial several times, covering the end with the sticky green substance.

"Then, I carefully brush it all over the handle like this." With long, soft, careful strokes, he brushed the green all along the black handle. With a couple more dips, he had enough to turn the entire handle green.

"You see, this substance brings out any fingerprints that may be on it. Here's an example."

The weasel promptly removed his left glove and laid it out flat on the table, carefully brushing the knife aside. He then pressed one fingertip firmly onto the glove, and then brushed it with the green substance as well.

"Now, we need to activate the infrared version of this lamp here. Would you mind hitting the light switch on the back wall there? And also pulling the shades down on the window?"

After Sly quickly did so, Wren flipped the lamp off, and flipped the switch right next to that one. The lamp cast a much darker light; a fine cross between dark blue and violet. It gave off an eerie glow and was all that illuminated the dark lab. And sure enough, among the now bright green substance on the back of the glove, Wren's fingerprint was clearly visible.

"Now, we move the glove out of the way, and put the knife in its place."

He moved the glove, and reached over for the knife, careful to only touch it by the blade and moving softly to avoid inflicting injury to himself. As he slowly brought it into the light, Sly tensed up. Then it was under the lamp.

Nothing.

"See? We tried this before…"

"Try something else." Sly said quickly and firmly as he turned the lights back on.

"Like what, Sly?"

"Anything! Even if you have to be Sherlock Holmes and look at it with a magnifying glass, just do it!"

"Y-yes, sir."

For the next 45 minutes, against Wren's protests, Sly had him use every trick in the book. He wanted to see it all for himself. More swabs, dipping the blade in a fine solution, even literally taking a magnifying glass to it. Then a microscope. Nothing worked. No results were yielded.

After the umpteenth attempt, Sly finally decided to give the now-exhausted Wren a break.

"Alright, Wren. You can sit for a minute if you'd like."

"Oh, thank you…Sly." Wren gasped as he collapsed into one of the metal chairs.

Sly tore off his gloves and mask and stormed out into the hall. Crumbling the three pieces of equipment into a ball and throwing them against the other wall, he cursed. He paused, hoping that it was loud enough for Wren to hear it.

It was.

After a moment, the weasel poked his head out the door. "Um, Sly? Are you alright?"

"Oh, sure. Just frustrated that I can't find any leads in the death of my wife."

"Oh…yes, of course."

"You can go now, Wren, if you want to."

"Um, OK, Sly. Thanks. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No, you've had a long day. I'll clean up."

"Oh, OK. Thank you."

With that, Wren slipped out the door completely and moved swiftly down the long hall before turning down another corridor with one final glance back at Sly, who had now sunk back against the wall, burying his face in his hands.

After a few moments of silence, Sly raised his head and looked to his right. Wren was gone. He looked down to his left, and saw nobody else around. With a slight grin, he slipped back into the lab, pressing a finger to the communicator in his left ear.

"Bentley, you there?"

"Yeah, pal. I'm here."

"First off, having this thing back in my ear brings me back a long way, let me tell you."

"Just like the good old days, I'm sure. Better than these days, at least. What's your status?"

"I finally got rid of him."

"You better have; it's almost been an hour!"

"If I could overwork him enough to send him away, then no one will bother me. We used _everything_ in the lab."

"Alright. Now you can try out _my_ lab."

"A lab squeezed into my leg pouch?"

"Precisely."

After Sly finished putting away all of the equipment Wren had used, he put one leg up onto the cold metal table and lifted up his pant leg. Underneath it, just above his ankle, was the familiar red pouch. He lifted open the flap and reached in, grabbing a handful of the small tools inside and putting them on the table. Once it was emptied, Sly spread them out and started sifting through them. Tweezers, a watch, a small black object that resembled a flashlight (albeit a flashlight that was barely three inches long), and many others.

"OK, let's start." Sly reported. "What's this one? It's about a few inches long, black, metal, looks like a flashlight."

"Ah. That's a special heat detector. Only this one can trace heat on a surface as far back as 96 hours."

"So, if the murder happened four days ago…"

"You have enough time. You said it was about ten o' clock at night when it happened, right?"

"Well, that's when she left…"

"It's barely nine o' clock A.M. right now. If there's any traces of heat from the attacker's hand still on here, we'll still find it. Now, in order to work it, you hold the larger end to the handle, and press the small red button in the middle."

"OK, but before I do; how is heat supposed to give us a lead on the identity of this son of a-." 

"There's a special signature in the heat that gives the slightest trace of the contours of the fingerprint that was there to create the heat; kind of like an infrared fingerprint. Assuming that not too many others have held it by the handle yet, we might be able to find it."

"OK, fine."

With that, Sly held the head of it close to the handle and held down the red button. Running along the side of the black bar of the device was a small screen, with a readout similar to a heart monitor. The green line on it was scraggly and shaking, not remaining steady. There was a symbol in the top corner of a circle, with a light travelling around it in an endless rotation.

"I'll never know where you get this stuff, pal. Q-Branch of the British Secret Service?"

"Ha! I wish. Now, just trace it along slowly, and if we get a definite readout, that line will remain flat and stable. I'm looking at a monitor back here that gives me a larger and much more-detailed readout of the device you're holding right now. Like I said, if you get something, stop and hold it right where it is."

"You got it."

And with that, Sly slowly started sweeping it in a pattern: Up and down, all while moving it slowly to the side. The green line remained scraggly and out-of-control, and the circling light didn't cease its rotation. Soon, the entire handle had been scanned.

"Dang it." Bentley muttered as soon as Sly had finished. "Nothing. But don't give up, Sly."

"Believe me, the words 'give up' aren't in my dictionary at this point."

"Glad to hear it. Look for another tool in there that you can use."

"OK."

Sly set the heat detector aside and did a quick once-over of all the remaining tools. Most of them were of different shapes, sizes, and designs. He had no idea which served what purpose and which he should choose. Then, suddenly, something peculiar caught his eye: A gold-plated watch with a diamond at the center of the face.

"Um…what's this watch for?" Sly asked as he picked it up.

"What? Did you say a watch?"

"Yeah, there's a watch here."

"Oh. Darn it! _That's _where it went! It was something I had been working on recently, and it went missing. It must have been put in that kit with all of the others by mistake. Just ignore it."

Sly was still stunned by the extremely ornate appearance, and also noticed something else about it: It was set on exactly 12:00, and wasn't moving at all. He noticed a small button on the side and casually pressed it.

Almost immediately, a horrid scratching sound began emitting from the watch. Sly dropped it and covered his ears, wincing. He looked down at it briefly and noticed that the two hands were now moving; the minute hand moving at a steady pace, and the hour hand following it with a slower – but still considerably fast – pace.

Sly reached over with one hand – the other still covering an ear – and pressed the button again. The scratching ceased abruptly, and the two hands stopped. He paused, and then, after a moment, noticed that the two hands were slowly moving backwards, returning to the even noon position. They hit the position once more and stopped.

"Sly! That…was amazing!"

"Amazing? That thing sounded horrible. And what's with this screwy watch?"

"No, it's not a watch! It only _looks_ like a watch. The rather extravagant appearance is part of its disguise. It's actually a Geiger counter."

"You're kidding, right?"

"I know. Quite clever, isn't it? But…that sound! That feedback was off the charts!"

"You mean those nails on a chalkboard?"

"That's the sound it's supposed to make. The louder the sound, the more radioactivity is on it. And the two arms read the level of radioactivity in a rough draft scan. Once it's finished, it saves all of the data it recorded and can be plugged into a computer to relay a more detailed analysis of the readings."

"So you're telling me that this knife is loaded with radiation?"

"It would appear so. I'd like a full reading. Hold the watch close to the knife and press the button again."

"OK. Here goes."

Sly picked up the golden device and held it right next to the handle. He slowly reached for the button and pressed it. Almost immediately, it responded. The loud, scraggly sound came back, and Sly covered his ears once more, but he kept his eyes on the watch face in amazement. The two arms were rising, both moving from their spot at exactly 12:00, and moving in a clockwise circle. Both arms moved fairly quickly, and eventually settled on 11:33, but were noticeably wavering.

Immediately, Bentley's voice came in. "Still louder than ever! Sly, where are the arms right now?"

"About 11:30, but it's not really staying put." Sly replied.

"11:30? And still wavering? That's…that's extraordinary! OK, Sly. I think it's got enough data in it now. Quick; put the knife back, gather all the stuff up, and come on back. I'll need to plug that watch into my computer to get the full readout."

"Wait, quiet!"

Sly paused, waiting and listening as a familiar sound outside started to grow louder.

"Shoot."

Sly started scrambling, gathering up all of the tools in a messy handful and stuffing them back into his leg pouch. All the while, the footsteps in the hall grew louder, undoubtedly coming from the same direction that Wren had come from. But these footsteps were much harder, more solid, and not as fast or frantic as Wren's had been.

"Sly? Sly, what's wrong?"

"Someone's coming."

Just as he finished stuffing the last of the tools into the pouch and pulled his pant leg down, the door opened.

Sly tried to look nonchalant as the two figures entered the room. He had to use a lot of his willpower to not scowl when he saw who one of them was: A monkey, fairly well-built, with a slight moustache curling beneath his nose. His face was otherwise very clean, sharp, and hard. His eyes, however, were very relaxed and casual. But when they centered in on Sly, a slight smile started to form on the face of Captain Eugene Braskel. Braskel was the head of the homicide division here in Paris, and was an arrogant jerk. He had been fairly jealous of the praise that Carmelita received from other officers, often commenting on her unprofessionalism and sloppiness when handling serious cases. Thus, he loved the torture that she faced from Barkley, and often made no attempt to conceal his enjoyment of this.

"Hello, Officer Cooper. Might I ask what you're doing here?" His voice was deep, firm, and reeked with a pompous attitude commonly seen in most typical mafia bosses or casino owners.

"Just studying the knife, Braskel."

"Ah, so my informant was correct. Might I ask what you're doing here without the proper equipment and assistance by a professional Forensic scientist?"

"I had the gloves and mask on; I just recently took them off."

"Ah. And you were not assisted by anyone?"

"I was." He replied coldly. "Wren was just helping me out."

"Oh, really?" The other man spoke up. A mouse with a slouched stance, graying hair, and a cigarette hanging from his mouth, Lieutenant Glen Whitman was like Braskel's right-hand man. He similarly shared a dislike of Carmelita, as well as a dislike of Sly, mostly brought about by suspicion and distrust. Or maybe it was because Sly got the promotion that Whitman had wanted about four years ago, even though Whitman had been with the force for several more years than Sly himself had.

"Then where is Wren the Wretch?" Whitman asked snidely.

"I sent him away; he was getting tired."

"Oh, come now, Cooper." Braskel said, striding over to him casually. "With or without Wren's help, I know exactly what it is you're up to here."

"Do tell."

"You're trying to solve the mystery. You want to be the hero who discovers who killed your wife. Now look here; if Wren and all of the other top scientists here couldn't find a single trace, then the trail is cold. You can't follow this yellow brick road, my friend; it will lead you nowhere. Don't think that you can succeed where the professionals couldn't."

"There's nothing wrong with pitching in, _my friend_." Sly replied.

"There's a difference between pitching in and being desperate. Isn't that right, Glen?"

"Sure."

"Now listen to me very carefully, Cooper." Braskel was now standing next to Sly, towering over him. "I know what your intentions are. You've been stone-faced ever since it happened. You've rarely spoken to anyone or done anything besides walk, eat, and sleep. Hell, you haven't even been doing that much eating recently. I know that you are having fantasies of going on some personal vendetta to exact revenge on whoever did this. But you are not a vigilante. You are not Sherlock Holmes."

He put his arm around Sly to humble him, with a grin that made Sly want to punch his lights out.

"You are just an average Interpol officer who can't cope with the death of his wife. Don't go trying anything."

He gestured to Whitman, who snatched up the knife and stuffed it back into the open locker.

"Now, _I'm_ the head of HD, so this is _my_ job. Not yours. I assure you, my boys are studying this case the best they can, trying to find out who committed this _horrible_ act."

"You're just loving the fact that she's gone, aren't you?"

"Oh, Sly, Sly, Sly…why would you say that? We're all one big happy family here. Carmelita was a fellow officer. She was an icon for many new and rookie officers…despite her rather black-and-white views."

"Go to hell."

"Oh, of course; you always were the bad cop, weren't you? Now, you really should be on your way, Cooper."

"Get your arm off me, and I'll go." Sly muttered through gritted teeth.

Braskel grinned, and slowly pulled his arm back.

Without another word, Sly stormed out of the lab and down the hall. Even though he refused to look back, he heard the door open behind him, followed by a voice: "And don't think that Barkley won't be hearing about your unannounced presence in here!"

…

"That arrogant jerk!" Sly exclaimed. "I just wanted to knock all of his teeth out, and then shove them up his-."

"Sly, forget about him! We got what we wanted; you don't need to worry about going back there anymore."

He turned away from Bentley and walked up to the wall, leaning forward and pressing his face into the glass of the massive window, cursing under his breath at Braskel and Whitman's interference.

"It doesn't matter if we got what we wanted. Now, even if we have what we were after, it's going to be harder to pull this off! He's convinced that, if I _do_ find out who killed her, I'm gonna go and use unorthodox methods to find him and kill him."

"But, isn't that exactly what you were already planning to do?"

"Yes! And he knows about it! Now, Barkley's probably gonna be watching me like a hawk!"

"Look, why don't you just calm down and let's head into the basement to analyze these readings?"

"Fine."

As they turned and started to head down the stairs, Sly took notice of the fact that the old Safehouse hadn't changed a bit. The living room on the second floor was the exact same; the table, the sofas, the chairs, even the giant-screen TV, it was all still there. On the first floor was the kitchen, with the familiar table and three chairs still around it. Near it was the counter, with the many cabinets surrounding it, along with the dishwasher, oven, and sink. Opposite that was the wall with three doors in it; one room for each former member of the gang. Only one of those rooms was still occupied.

But the basement was easily where all of the magic was; its walls were lined with the scores and scores of pictures, from their earliest days to just weeks ago. There were also many glass cases containing so many old souvenirs from past heists, old outfits, Sly's original backpack, Bentley's original hat and sleep dart gun, and so on. Against the back wall was the large wooden desk, with a single candle on it and a massive bookcase behind it.

Standing by the bookcase, a mouse was rearranging books on the shelves. At the sound of their entrance, she turned around.

"Sly! It's so good to see you again."

"Hello, Penelope."

She walked over to him and hugged him quickly.

"I'm so sorry about all that's happened…"

"It's alright. According to Bentley here, we've got a lead."

"I'm positive we've got a lead. Come on over to the computer here."

The three of them went over to the desk, with Bentley sitting behind it, and Sly and Penelope standing on opposite sides of him. On the desk was a sleek, flat computer. Bentley reached into a drawer at his side, and pulled out a long cord. At one end was a small point, like at the end of a cord for a set of headphones. At the other end was a small square, with a flat point stretching out of it. Unraveling it, Bentley plugged the square end into a small outlet in his computer console, and then held up the other end. He pulled out a small screwdriver and pulled off the lid of the battery compartment on the back of the watch. Next to the small batteries, there was a small hole. Bentley plugged the other end of the cord into the hole, and then brought the computer out of sleep mode.

"So, what exactly do we have here?" Sly asked.

Bentley brought up a small window, and eventually brought up a small black screen with a flat, green line running along it.

"Here, we can more thoroughly analyze the recorded readings that you took today. Study its movements and elements."

He pressed the play button, and the line started writhing on the screen, growing larger and forming massive rise in the middle of it. All the while, the scratchy sound of the watch played over the speakers, only with a more static-y feel to it. The line only grew larger and larger as time passed.

"The readings of radioactivity are off the charts! Its increase was steady and sure. It wasn't ragged or waving out of control as it rose; it maintained a firm rise. These readings indicate that, while it's a few days old, it is still unbelievably strong. However, it's not the amount of radioactivity; it's the source."

"You know the source already?"

"That's another special feature to this particular model of Geiger counter. It is able to thoroughly analyze the nature of the radioactivity, and read a special signature in the radioactivity that can trace right back to the element it originated from."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's over here." Bentley said. He grabbed the edge of the desk and pushed himself back away from the computer, grabbing his right wheel and holding it still with his right hand while his left hand turned the left wheel and shifted his whole chair to the right. Before he moved forward, he reached for one of the desk's drawers and pulled it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small bronze key. He rolled away from the desk towards one of the many glass cases that lined the walls of the basement, in between the dozens of framed photographs hanging on the walls. Penelope and Sly followed behind.

Bentley soon approached a glass case containing a strange object; it was a dark gray chunk of metal, unevenly shaped and lumpy, barely the size of an orange. It was extremely dark, but at the same time was very pristine, almost like platinum. He wheeled up to the case and reached into one of the many compartments in his wheelchair, first placing the key on the arm of the chair beside the open compartment. He reached in and pulled out his old pair of brown leather gloves. He slipped them on, pulling them tight over each finger. He then grabbed the key again raised it up to a small lock on the front of the glass case, pressed it in, and turned it firmly. There was a click, and the entire front side of the case jolted briefly, falling loose. He put the key away and reached up for the edge of the glass pane, pulling it open with the slightest of creaks. With slightly trembling fingers, he reached into the case and wrapped both hands around the strange object, lifting it up off of its thin metal support rods, and pulled it out.

"What is that thing?" Sly asked, his eyes fixated on the piece of metal as Bentley wheeled back over to the desk and carefully placed it on the wooden desktop.

"A metal that is so rare, that I truly believe no one else has discovered it."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Never. I am entirely serious about that."

"A whole new metal? Never before seen or discovered?"

"Well, there are no official records of it. No scientific data on it or its structure. Nothing even on the periodic table. So, I took it upon myself to give it a name: Karovanine. Named after the one place in the world where it is found: The Krak-Karov Volcano in Russia."

Almost instantly at the mention of the infamous Volcano, Sly went rigid. "You mean…?"

"Wait, isn't that where you guys faced Clockwerk the first time?" Penelope asked.

"That's right. This metal was the same kind that was used in two high-tech blasting vehicles owned by Mz. Ruby and the Panda King, back when they still worked for the Fiendish Five. As you recall, I managed to get a hold of Mz. Ruby's before the authorities arrived at her lair. Upon analyzing it, I realized the rarity of the metal it was constructed of and made sure to acquire the Panda King's as well. It's a very strange type of metal. It apparently doesn't rust, nor does it wear down over time. It doesn't even get scorched. It's a rare alloy that remains strong and fresh for…well, forever! It's like platinum, only rarer and harder. It's the same kind of metal that Clockwerk himself was made out of. The Volcano's base and underground structure is rich with it. And, after the confrontation, it became apparent that the only thing that could damage the metal was molten lava, as evident by the destruction of the Death Ray. Following the incident at the Volcano back in 1990, the authorities came to rescue Carmelita, and found Clockwerk…well, you know the story."

"Wait, hold up." Sly interrupted. "Then how come so many parts of him were destroyed when I shot at him with Carmelita's jetpack?"

"The parts that you hit were not destroyed; they simply broke away and fell into the lava. You see, the fault there did not rest with the Karovanine itself, as it did with how it was put together. You saw yourself how the inner frame and endoskeleton of Clockwerk was arranged; there were patches in between the metal rods that served as 'bones.' The parts that were over those patches had a hollow interior, and thus fell away relatively easily under the gunfire."

"But there's something else that doesn't make sense." Penelope interjected. "You said that lava could damage this Karovanine; if Clockwerk himself fell into the lava, how was he _not_ damaged?"

"You see, when Clockwerk finally gave in under the gunfire and plunged into the Volcano, he did not actually submerge beneath the lava. He simply rested on top of it. Thus, only the parts of him that were actually underneath the lava were destroyed. And even then, they appeared rather resistant. You see, I was able to deduce that the level of purity determines the level of strength for the sample of Karovanine. The purer the stronger. Clockwerk himself was constructed out of the purest Karovanine at the Volcano. Naturally, he was a bigger priority than anything else; even the Death Ray. Had he been completely submerged under the lava for a certain amount of time, however, even he would've been completely dissolved."

"Wait. Stop." Sly interrupted. "Then how exactly did the Clockwerk parts shrivel up and disintegrate in 1992? If this metal is indestructible to anything except lava, how did _that_ happen?"

"Well, I haven't been able to figure that part out yet. That's what has always eluded me in my studies."

"Wait, you don't know? So then that means that, as far as we know, this Karovanine _can _still be destroyed, right?"

"Perhaps. But that's all beside the point. The bottom line is, the person behind this was at the Krak-Karov Volcano at some point in time, and was near some of that metal; perhaps even touched it. That's why the radioactive energy clung to him, and thus to the handle of the knife. Whoever held this knife, and used it to…" His voice trailed off, and he recovered after a brief pause. "…this person handled some of the Karovanine not too long ago."

"So our best chance of finding the beast who did this is going back to the Volcano." Sly stated.

"It would appear so." Bentley replied.

"Then that's where we'll go. Whoever this monster is, he can't hide forever. And even if he's not there, then maybe we can find some kind of hint as to where he plans to strike next."

"Strike next? You really think that he's…not finished?"

"Yes. Originally, I was thinking otherwise. You know, Carmelita has made plenty of enemies – on _both_ sides of the law – over the course of her life. But now that I know that the Volcano is involved…I have a feeling that this is no random attack, and it wasn't against Carmelita herself. Someone's out to get _us_, and it's most likely someone we've encountered before. Even if the person who actually did this isn't one of them, we know that they still mean business."

Sly slowly walked away from the desk, hands behind his back and shaking his head.

"Sly…"

"Tomorrow."

"What?" Bentley asked.

"Tomorrow is when I ask Barkley for permission to extend my official leave. If he approves it, I leave the same day. You can either come with me or not. But I'm personally going to hunt down the scumbag behind all of this and kill him myself."

Both Bentley and Penelope were stunned by the sudden brutality of Sly's words, even though the former had already seen an example of this. They could not see his face, but they knew from his voice that he meant it with the most sincerity they had ever known. He was definitely a force to be reckoned with now, but he was still their friend.

"No. I'll go with you." Bentley replied firmly.

"Count me in, too." Penelope added.

Sly slowly turned his head back towards them. After a pause, he gave a single nod before he turned and left the room.

…

As they walked down the hall, Braskel and Whitman were snickering back and forth. The latter patted the former on the back.

"Oh, Glenny boy, this is perfect! We just caught him examining the murder weapon _by himself_! Oh, it's too good to be true! We tell _this_ to Barkley, and he'll 'take it into consideration' a hell of a lot faster!"

"You said it! He's sure to give us the authorization now!"

_Later…_

"For the love of God, Braskel, you two have been hounding this guy ever since the moment his wife was found dead! Give him some slack, would ya?"

"Sir, you yourself admitted that you had been keeping a close eye on Cooper and Fox. You yourself admitted that there was always that little feeling in your heart that Cooper wasn't completely reformed."

"I know what I said before, but damn it, Braskel; reformed or not, his wife is dead. I know what that feels like. Can't you give him a little breathing space?"

"He was in the Forensics Lab, examining the murder weapon, sir." Braskel reported. "Unauthorized."

Barkley paused in mid-stride. He removed the cigar from his mouth.

"Unauthorized?"

"He claimed to have been assisted by Wren, but he wasn't there when we arrived." Braskel added. "He was completely alone."

"So let me get this straight." Barkley replied, putting the cigar back in his mouth and leaning back against his wooden desk. "You want to deliberately take advantage of the death of the man's wife to stalk him and hope to catch him committing some sort of crime, believing that he has, in fact, faked this amnesia for all these years, having gone through Interpol receiving several awards, commendations, and promotions along the way, and this kind of incident will jolt him back to his old ways and will give you enough evidence to have him locked up?"

"Yes, sir." Braskel replied firmly. "Sir, I believe we've got ourselves the best circumstantial evidence…"

"Braskel, there is no such thing as 'the best circumstantial evidence.'" Barkley shot back. "Circumstantial evidence is no more of a substitute for solid, hard evidence than a cap gun is a substitute for a 9-millimeter Uzi. Now I know full well that you're making this proposal based solely on your personal dislike and distrust of Cooper. That goes for you too, Whitman."

"Sir, whether we like him or not, we still both firmly believe that he has been faking it all these years. You have to hear us out. We believe that he's going to come to you and ask for permission to extend his official leave. If he does that, could you consider giving us the authorization to follow him at any cost until he either returns or his leave expires?"

Barkley moved back behind his desk and stopped at the massive window of his office. He stared down through it at all the rooftops stretching off into the horizon. He looked down at the streets many stories below.

"Sir, can I ask you something?" Braskel asked.

"It won't kill me."

"Sir, imagine for a moment that he really is faking it. Now imagine that we caught him, proved that he was faking it, and locked him up. You, me, and Whitman. We'd receive so much publicity. The people would love us! We'd be forever remembered as the three men who helped to reveal a faker, a man who had always remembered his life of crime during his time of service, and put him back where he belonged, on the side of the police force that he _should've_ been on in the first place: On the _inside_ of the bars."

Barkley straightened up. He looked up at the sky through the window. He took another long drag on his cigar, then slowly reached up and took it out between two fingers.

"Sir." Braskel said again.

Barkley turned and looked hard at Braskel. He then turned to Whitman.

"You, Whitman. You haven't said a single thing since you two came in here."

Whitman swallowed.

"Braskel seems to be doing all the talking here." Barkley looked back at the monkey, then back at Whitman. He paused. Then he looked back at Braskel.

"Braskel, why don't you head outside for a moment? Get yourself a cup of coffee if you want."

"Um, yes sir." Braskel stood up and quickly left.

Barkley took another long drag on the cigar, and walked back around to the front of his desk, before speaking to Whitman.

"Braskel really is the forerunner here, isn't he?"

Whitman paused for a moment. "Yes, sir. He is."

"You seem to be nothing more than the follower." Barkley leaned back on the desk. "You simply just agree with him and then shut up. Why?"

"Well, he has always been the better talker."

"I see. But why follow him so diligently? Why him over anyone else?"

"Well…I…I trust Braskel more than anyone else on the force. When I joined as a new recruit here, he kinda took me under his wing. He guided me and helped me out. He's been like a big brother to me, almost. For 11 straight years, sir."

"I see. But that doesn't mean you have to worship him."

"I know, sir."

"Because, in the end, I outrank him, and you, and I make the final calls. _I'm_ the one you have to worship."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you personally believe this story? Do you really believe that Sly Cooper has been faking it for 8 straight years?"

Whitman paused and took a deep breath.

Then, "Yes."

"Alright." Barkley straightened up. "What do you think about Braskel?"

"I…I said a moment ago…"

"No, no, no. You said why you follow Braskel. You said why you worship him. You didn't say what you think of him, as an individual."

"Well…"

"Do you think he's trustworthy?"

"To me, yes."

"Personally, I think he's a weasel. Figuratively speaking, of course. But regardless, he's got one hell of a record, and numerous commendations. He's probably the best head of the homicide division we've had in decades. He has been wrong before…but then again, we all have." Barkley paused for another inhaling of his cigar. "Except for me."

"I truly believe that he's right about this one, sir. Again, in light of all these recent events, this could be the perfect chance to prove it."

Barkley sighed and shook his head. He took another deep drag on his cigar. "Well, you know what they say: 'Some low blows can bring about high things.' What the hell?"

He leaned over and pressed one of the buttons on his small speaker on his desktop.

"Miss Barnes, send him back in."

"Right away, sir." The secretary replied.

After a moment, Braskel walked back in.

"Yes, sir?"

"I've thought it over Braskel. And I suppose that a little surveillance won't harm anyone. It's not like if he's found completely innocent it'll cause a bureaucratic nightmare. However, if he is found to be clean, then you two will, at most, lose a lot of points with me. This'll be something that I'll remember with crystal clarity in the future when you two ask me to trust something that you say. Are we clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir." Braskel said as he stood up. Whitman mimicked him.

"Crystal?"

"Diamond, sir."

Barkley snorted. "Very well. Dismissed."

**To be continued…**


	5. Target: Lousteau

Target: Lousteau

_Off the coast of Cuba, Caribbean Sea; Friday, June 10, 11:41 A.M.…_

The massive white yacht slowly crept to a stop, gliding along the glassy surface of the water as its engines were cut. Standing at the wheel was a young German Shepherd, who slowly moved a little more towards portside as the vessel eased to a halt.

"That's fine! Drop away with the anchor!"

The command came from a large lizard standing on the forecastle deck of the yacht with a green and yellow wetsuit on. As another crewmember released the anchor, the lizard donned a pair of air tanks and slowly pulled the mask up over his head before placing it over his face. The crewmember who had dropped the anchor approached him with the harpoon gun in hand.

"Here it is, sir."

"Cool, bro." The lizard quickly snatched it and checked to make sure that it was loaded. He then slipped it into his dive suit's belt and started adjusting his air tanks. The crewman slowly turned to walk away. However, the helmsman instantly cut off his path and stood in front of him.

"Nick, you said you were going to be the one to say something to him." The helmsman hissed.

"I know, I know. But…I've been thinking that if I question him, he'll fire me. I won't get any more money off of him. And I need some of the dough – er, money."

"See? You're already talking like him. You have got to say something to him, _now_."

"Why can't you do it, Herb?"

"You volunteered to do it first."

"I didn't volunteer; you, me, and Steven made a bet that whoever spoke to him first got 200 dollars."

"_You_ were the one who made the bet."

Herb quickly glanced over Nick's shoulder and saw the lizard slowly start to approach the railing.

"He's getting ready to dive! Go now!"

Before Nick could protest, Herb spun him around and gave him a quick shove in their employer's direction. Nick clumsily stumbled up to the lizard, careful not to bump into him.

"Um, sir?"

The lizard stopped just at the railing and turned to face the man who had spoken.

"May I ask you something?"

"Shoot away, dude."

"Well, first off, might I ask where exactly you got this information from? You know, about this so-called wreck?"

"Oh, a pal of mine in Florida. He told me all the sweet details, where it's at, and all that stuff."

"He told you all the details?"

"Yep."

"That it's called _The Black Wing_?"

"Yep."

"That there's approximately $140,000,000 in gold bullion down there?"

"Yep."

"But sir, we've already tried four times now, and we could never find the wreck."

"Well, you know what they says, right? Fifth time's a lucky charm!"

"It's 'third time's a charm,' sir."

"Look, even if it takes us five dives or one gazillion dives, I don't care. The dives are what gives me the jives, man!"

"Well what about us, sir? We sit up here for hours and wait for you to come back, most of the time empty-handed!"

"He won't be able to stay down there for much longer!" Herb suddenly called from behind. Both Nick and the lizard turned around to face him.

Herb pointed out over the starboard side, into the distance. "There's a storm coming. See?"

They both followed the direction of his finger, and could easily see the brewing dark clouds not too far away, with occasional bright flashes in them.

"It was all over the Weather Channel this morning, sir. It's practically a typhoon!"

"Not to worry no mind, man! I'll be back up here with the bling in zero time!"

And with that, the lizard placed the end of the air hose into his mouth, taking one long deep breath to make sure that it worked, and then slowly let himself tumble backwards over the railing and into the ocean with a large splash.

"That's what he said the last time." Herb muttered, shaking his head.

"What should we do?"

"What we should do is weigh the anchor and get the hell out of here before he comes back."

"Should we?"

"Well, unfortunately, he's the only reason that you, me, and Steven get paid these days. Whether or not he's an idiot, he's still a rich idiot. And if he's rich, we're rich."

"But we can't stay here too long…right?" Nick nervously gestured over to the gathering clouds that seemed to be drawing closer. Already, a breeze started to kick up, catching the flag atop the bridge and sending it whipping. Nick quickly pulled his jacket closer to his face.

"Look, we'll wait for him to come back up. By the time the storm gets here, if it does, its effects will be just as strong under the water. He'll know to come back up."

"Well, what should we do in the meantime?"

"Before it starts raining? I can do this."

Herb reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Marlboro box.

"Want one?"

"Um, no thanks."

"Suit yourself." Herb slid one of the cigarettes out of the pack and slipped the box back into his pocket, exchanging it for a tall, red plastic lighter. As he started to smoke, the wind instantly swept up the smoke from his mouth as he exhaled and scattered it to the wind. Nick slowly turned and headed back below deck.

Herb remained on the forecastle, leaning forward over the railing as he took another deep, long drag. He glanced out into the distance, opposite the approaching storm, and thought he could just barely see something on the water. He instinctively clenched his teeth down on the cigarette to hold it in his mouth as he reached for the binoculars. He looked through them, turning the knob on top to focus it. He could now clearly see that it was a small, gray metal boat with a single outboard motor. There were two fishing poles standing up in it, apparently placed in rod holders. He could see a single figure bent down on the boat, sorting through a tackle box, with a large yellow raincoat and hat on.

Disregarding this as just another typical fisherman, Herb put the binoculars away and took the cigarette between two fingers, a clear imprint of his teeth still left on it.

…

He could barely see out of the corner of his eye as the German shepherd on the deck of the yacht raised his glasses and watched him for a few long seconds. He continued to act like a normal fisherman, stringing his bait onto hooks. Even at the incredible distance, the slight flicker of movement told him that the man was putting the binoculars back down. He was in the clear once again.

Tossing the small hook aside, he whipped off his yellow poncho and matching yellow hat, quickly adjusting his sleek, black wetsuit underneath it and pulling the hood of it up over his head. He also took one quick breath through the hose to test his air tanks, and found them working perfectly. He reached underneath the wooden slat of a seat he was on and firmly grasped the handle of his new knife: A fine kitchen knife, not with jagged edges like the one he had used to kill the Interpol officer, but sleeker and meant for more precise cuts rather than pure strength. He clenched the blade between his teeth as he grabbed his underwater prober: A four-foot long device with a single large propeller in the back, capable of reaching a speed of nearly ten knots per hour underwater. He took hold of the handles on each side and held it in front of him, propeller facing down. He took one last quick look at the yacht in the distance. By now, even the smoker had retreated back to the warmth and dryness of the cabin, as the rain was slowly and surely beginning to fall.

He stood up, facing the water before him. It slowly started to grow choppy, and he knew that he had no time to lose. This storm was the perfect cover, and he had to act fast before the target – one Dimitri Lousteau – decided to return and head back to shore.

With that, he leapt off the boat and into the water, slamming through the surface into the frigid water. He wasn't even fazed. He had faced colder once when pursuing a target through the German Alps. He aimed the prober underwater and flicked it on, moving the knob on the side to "10" for maximum speed. The propeller instantly kicked up, and he held on as it took him down, further and further into the ocean and towards his target.

Once he reached the point where visibility was practically zero, he reached up with one hand and flicked a switch on the top of his mask. Almost instantly, the visor on the inside lit up with a special night-vision and infrared view of everything, instantly making it brighter without creating an obvious beacon of light. So far, everything around him was still a murky, extremely dark green. Then a single spot of light green appeared in his line of vision. It was moving constantly, splitting open and closing repeatedly at one end; kicking legs. It was moving further down, but at a slow pace.

This was it.

He gripped the handle of the knife firmly as he held it against the handlebar of the prober. He aimed further down, the shape now directly in his sights. With one hand steady on the prober, he slowly raised the knife high, its blade gleaming slightly under the water.

Dimitri continued to swim farther down, confident that this was the spot. His friend had never lied to him before. Well, except for that one time in…

Just then, he could see it. Rising out of the murk on the ocean floor, there it was: A massive, dark shape. It rose high off the floor, large on one end and slightly smaller on the other. A single mast rose up from the old structure. Behind the mask, his eyes widened and his anticipation increased, and he started swimming faster.

Inwardly, he was used to this every time, but just couldn't help but get excited at the idea of money. The only thing more amusing to him than money was more money. Ever since he had left the Cooper Gang, for the last eight years, he had become filthy rich. Even with paying off his crew, he still had a lot left over for himself. It was all just another day's work…

At that moment, he could feel something; a sudden rushing off to his side. He glanced over just in time for the beam of his mask's light to bounce off of a shiny blade coming right at him.

He jetted right past the lizard, knife raised. He had caught the lizard completely off-guard. He held the knife down at the last split second as he was directly beside the diver. Instantly, the blade pierced his wetsuit, connecting with his skin in the middle of his stomach and tracing a long, deep line in his flesh. Almost instantly, a dark cloud started emitting from the wound. Even then, he continued tracing the knife up his body in a sharp arc, bringing it along his arm. He managed to slice a vertical line on his wrist and knock the harpoon gun right out of his hand. It was all in less than two seconds.

As he sped past, he looked back at his wounded target. He turned the prober to the left and eased up on the speed, preparing to make a sharp turn in case he was not wounded enough. But he most certainly was. He issued a long, horrible underwater scream as the searing pain finally caught up with him. He started convulsing wildly, kicking his legs and thrashing around. After a few seconds, he managed to regain himself and quickly swiped up his harpoon gun with his uninjured hand. He instantly turned to face his attacker, swiping away some of the red cloud in front of him. He aimed the gun and fired once.

He quickly flicked the knob back to "10" and jerked up on his prober, aiming it straight up and lifting him out of the path of the harpoon. He then swung down and became level with his wounded target once more. He started circling him slowly. He watched as the lizard made a futile attempt to reload, but was unable to do so with only one hand. The blood continued leaking from the massive wound, which stretched from his stomach all the way up to his right wrist. The light on top of his mask was waving wildly as he moved around uncontrollably, casting an eerie red glow. Soon, he was becoming lost in his own blood cloud.

He looked down at his prober, and turned a knob that was just underneath the accelerator lever. A square panel slid open, revealing a sonar screen. There was a single yellow dot in the center that was him and his prober. As the thin line circled around the screen once, it gave off a light _beep!_, and the small shape of the lizard appeared briefly, right before him, before flashing away. With the second rotation, it appeared again. He looked back up at the real thing, which was still thrashing and shaking. He seemed completely incapable of thinking to return to the surface. Pain and panic had overtaken him.

Excellent.

Just then, after the first sound of the lizard, there was a second chime, even louder than the first. It drew his attention, but he was too late and the shape had faded away. He waited patiently for the next rotation.

_Beep!_

There it was. A large shape, just southeast of the two of them. It was larger than the lizard, and as large as him, if not slightly larger. It was a long, torpedo-like shape with the slight triangular bump on the back.

Just then, a second one appeared, closing in from the southwest. Then a third, right behind the first.

Just as he had hoped; the scent of the blood had spread fast, and several of the local sharks were moving in. Despite his desire to witness the kill, he didn't dare wait any longer. Powerful as he was, he was not able to survive against three sharks that large in their own turf. With one final look at the red cloud, he slowly turned the prober straight up. He looked back, and saw a dark shape flash by underneath him. He looked down and followed the shape: A 16-foot Tiger shark. It ignored him altogether, and started circling around the blood cloud. Just then, the wavering light illuminated another shark that also came around, and was circling the prey just above the first shark.

He flicked the knob and slowly started his ascent just as the third shark arrived. He looked back down one last time, and watched as they circled the target for a few more moments, then simultaneously moved in. They darted right into the red cloud and started thrashing wildly, shaking their tails and heads as they attacked. The scream continued for a few more seconds, growing fainter and fainter, before it stopped. Then the light flickered out.

It had happened in almost two minutes. The surprising speed of the sharks' arrival was a bonus that he truly had not expected. Nonetheless, it worked out as planned: It would look like a terrible accident.

That is, if they found anything.

Raising the speed to ten knots per hour, he rocketed for the surface and left the feeding frenzy beneath him, the cloud and three large shapes slowly being enveloped by the darkness.

…

Back on the yacht, Herb had long since lost his cigarette to the wind. The waves were now steadily rising and falling, slapping against the white hull of the vessel. The wind was blowing hard, and the rain was slamming down at an angle. He still clutched the railing just above the lowered ladder.

Just then, Nick stumbled up to him. He was now wearing a thick raincoat, pulled up over his head. He stumbled and slipped several times on the slippery deck as he clumsily approached Herb. The wind made it impossible to be heard at a normal volume.

"Herb!" He cried nervously, shivering out of fear more than out of the cold. "What are we gonna do?"

"That moron should've been back by now! It's been almost an hour and a half!"

"Two hours, actually!" Nick corrected.

Just then, a considerably large wave slammed into the port side of the yacht, moving it several feet over and tilting the deck. Both men held onto the railing for dear life as it slammed over them, flooding several loose objects over the edge. The ladder held tight.

"We can't afford to wait any longer, Nick!"

"But we can't just leave him!"

"If he's not smart enough to come back in the middle of a storm like this, then he deserves to die!"

Just then, a frantic figure came running out of the cabin. Steven, the third crewmember, was a young Terrier. He came scrambling up to the other two men, covering his head with his own hands.

"Herb! Nick! I don't know how much longer we can take this! That last wave – that really big one – it actually pushed one of the windows open and flooded right into the cabin! Our radio was hit! It short-circuited; it's useless!"

"That's it, we're getting out of here!"

"But what about-."

"Forgot him! That screwball is actually pretty sea savvy; maybe, if he's actually found his _Black Wing_, he'll camp out there for the night!"

"Or we can call the Coast Guard!" Nick suggested.

"I just said that the radio is destroyed!"

"Steven, raise the ladder! Nick, weigh anchor! I'm bringing this thing back into port, NOW!"

And with that, Herb dashed over to the central structure and scaled the ladder while the other two did their impromptu jobs. As he opened the throttle and started to turn the wheel, he glanced out one more time in the direction of the small fishing boat he had seen earlier.

There wasn't a single sign of it. Nothing out there but the dark ocean and raging waves.

With a shake of his head, Herb quickly turned the wheel hard-to-starboard, and brought the yacht around completely, dashing right through some of the waves as it slowly made its way through the storm back to New Orleans.

**To be continued…**


	6. The Facility

The Facility

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Friday, June 10, 6:39 P.M.…_

The two dogs marched in perfect unison, their cadence coming together as one step as they advanced down the metal walkway. They brushed silently past the bustling scientists and manufacturers observing the various apparatuses and procedures as the manufacturing process continued. There were all kinds of sounds in the massive chamber: Hisses of steam, creaks and whirs of mechanical arms, the low humming of conveyor belts, and the beeping of computers. This continued on throughout the whole factory, and neither of the two guards paid any mind to it.

They eventually reached the far end of the building, where the single elevator sat. One of the two guards pressed a small, white button beneath a speaker on the wall beside the elevator doors.

After a moment, a voice replied, "Yes?"

The guard pressed the white button once more.

"Sir, we have an update on…_his_ mission." The guard who spoke made sure to put emphasis on "his," so that the boss would clearly understand who he was talking about.

"Enter."

The elevator doors slowly split open, and the two guards entered. The doors closed behind them, but they did not turn around. The elevator started up, rising with a humming sound as it lifted up and out of the noisy factory. The fine steel walls of the shaft fell past them, clearly visible through the elevator's all-glass wall. There was the faintest of lights coming from above them, within the elevator shaft. After a moment, the elevator lifted up out of the shaft, the darkness giving way to the twilight as they rose up into the calm evening air. The transparency allowed them a clear view of the massive facility snaking down away from them, seeming to stem from the base of the very elevator shaft they were on, and moving along in a long line away from the base of the massive Volcano, its buildings and chambers branching out from the main vine of structure.

It continued to rise, the long, firm steel cables hanging parallel to the side of the Volcano, steel and glass against rock as it continued to rise. Above them was a medium-sized chamber; perfectly square and with a small portion of it hanging freely over the edge. In this overhanging part was the socket, just large enough for the elevator to fit in; its cables were snaking up into the small hole. Eventually, the elevator lifted up and into this hole, creeping to a halt as it reached its destination. The double doors on the other side of the elevator opened up, and the guards stepped through them and into the chamber.

The Commander's chamber was fairly elegant: There was an assortment of potted plants, fine paintings, and pieces of furniture all set up throughout the room. In the center of the chamber was a large, rectangular rug of red cotton. At the far end was a wooden oak desk, polished and shining brightly as it reflected the bright overhead light emitting from the elegant chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. On the desk were a few stacks of papers, along with a state-of-the-art computer console, the intercom speaker for the PA system of the entire facility, a small lamp, and a brown clay ashtray. Behind it was a massive chair, fashioned out of the finest black leather.

Sitting in the chair was a badger, just about five feet high. He had a sharp face with the hardest and darkest of eyes, and the slightest of smirks. While still somewhat past middle age, he lacked facial hair. His limbs were thick and firm, not too muscular, not too underweight, and not too overweight. Around his belt was a thin brown leather strap, with a holster at one side. He wore a black, short-sleeved shirt, black pants, and black, steel-toed boots. His hands were folded in his lap as they entered.

"Do come in, gentlemen." He said stiffly and almost tiredly. "What is the update?"

"Your man has successfully eliminated Lousteau. That makes three of his targets dead, and five more to go."

"Excellent. I was somewhat worried about that stupid lizard; he was always traveling and never stayed in one place, unlike all of the others. But, no matter. Is that all you have to say?"

"For now, sir."

"Very good."

Even though that was the end of their report, neither of the soldiers budged. They knew that, in the presence of the Commander, they were not to move an inch unless officially dismissed.

The badger slowly stepped out of the chair, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small box. As he walked around the desk, he whipped one cigarette out of the box before stuffing it back into his pocket. He placed the cigarette into his mouth, with a quick glance back at the two soldiers, still standing rigidly in place, not leaving unless they were given permission to leave.

Now, their loyalty would be put to the test. He hadn't had the chance to have some fun with one of the men in a while.

He slowly pulled out a golden lighter – the original Scythe-and-Hammer symbol of Communist Russia engraved on it in black – and flicked it open, striking it on. A small flame flickered up. He glanced back at the soldiers.

Still unmoving.

He slowly held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Soon, a small orange glow appeared. Satisfied, he closed the lighter and placed it back in his pocket as well. He took a long, deep, and fairly loud drag on the cigarette before removing it between two fingers and exhaling a puff of smoke.

"Um…sir?"

Bulls-eye.

He allowed one eye to flicker to the side at the two soldiers. The one on the left – a Rottweiler – was the one who had spoken.

"What is it?"

"I…I thought that the rules and protocols clearly stated that there was to be no smoking anywhere in the facility whatsoever."

"And your point is…?"

"Um…well, I…"

The badger slowly approached the guard, towering above him by almost a foot, and took another deep drag as he stared up into the guard's eyes. He remained unmoving, but there was the slightest of vibrations as his body unconsciously trembled.

"You're telling me that smoking is not allowed?"

"That's…what we've been trained with, sir."

"Hmm…I see."

A single drop of sweat appeared on the guard's forehead.

"Now, let me ask you this: Who are you?"

"Private Maclean, recruited three days ago."

That explained everything.

"How did you end up being one of the two to deliver this latest update to me?"

"I was to fill in this co-messenger role for Sergeant Davis, who is currently on leave for unknown reasons."

"Well then, Private Maclean: Do you outrank me?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have any command over me?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have the right to tell me what to do? To give me orders? To boss me around?"

"No, no, and no, sir."

He slowly turned away, turning his back on the guard. He heard the slightest of exhales from behind him. He thought that he was getting out of this.

Hell would freeze over before that.

"Well then, let me tell you a little something: I am well aware of the rules. I am well aware of the ban on smoking. I am well aware…because I am in charge."

He spun around to face him. He caught the brief flicker of movement as the guard's head jerked back up. He had broken bearing and had been looking down at him while his back was turned.

"I am in charge of all that goes on in this facility. I am in charge of the rules…_I make the rules_. Thus, I am above the rules. I am allowed to do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want. And you expect me to heed to the rules? And you think that you can correct your commanding officer?"

"No, sir, I just…"

The badger had pivoted around again, his back once again to the nervous guard. By now, several beads of sweat were on his brow, and there was obvious tension in the air. His left hand slowly drifted down to his holster, carefully grabbed the handle, slipped each finger through one of the rings…

"You just what?"

"Well, I just…I thought I…"

And then, before he knew it, there was a blinding pain in the guard's lower stomach.

It was a blinding stab of pain that tore right through him with unbelievable strength. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Only when he finally looked down did he see the badger's large, hard fist pressed into his stomach. He collapsed to his knees, and was now face-to-face with the badger. He leaned in close, the stink of the cigarette smoke now forcing itself through his nostrils.

Then, in a hissed voice, the badger muttered, "Whatever it was you thought, it was the last thought you will ever have."

The badger's fist twisted, rotating in place. And then it yanked out fiercely and violently. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred to blackness was the massive, blood-soaked blade in the Commander's hand.

The badger paid no mind as the Rottweiler's body crumpled to the floor, blood leaking from the open wound in his stomach. He casually strode over to his desk, opened another drawer, and removed a pure white handkerchief. He folded it over the blade of his knife, pulling it up from the bottom to the tip of the knife once, wiping off most of the blood, and then bringing it back down, folding it once more, then pulling it up swiftly, thoroughly cleaning the yellowish blade.

The other guard stood silently, rigidly, unmoving, not even breathing.

"You see now, Grant, why my carpet is red?"

"Very ingenious, sir."

"Why, thank you. But, I must admit; your alibi could have used some more detail. I mean, Sergeant Davis 'currently on leave for unknown reasons'?"

"I didn't want to arouse too much suspicion, sir."

"Yes, I can understand that. But you must not be so vague. They might get suspicious anyway."

"Of course, sir."

The badger finished cleaning the blade. He casually refolded the handkerchief and placed it back in the drawer. He re-sheathed the massive knife, glancing down at the body as the blood leaked off of his still form and onto the carpet, the blood blending in perfectly with the red cotton.

"Such a shame. But you know how it is, Grant; rookies are expected to know the basics and common sense of our organization by the first day."

"Absolutely, sir."

"You learned faster, obviously. You have managed to survive the last two updates on my man's status, unlike unfortunate Davis and…oh, what was this one's name again?"

"Maclean, sir."

"Of course, Maclean."

"If I may ask, sir; where exactly _did_ you find that man? I still remember seeing him for the first time, and he still disturbs me, sir."

"Ah, well, about that…I had heard of him all over the place. All kinds of various anonymous informants of mine had told me that this man was absolutely legendary in the world of assassins. Um, excuse me just a second."

From his seat behind the desk, the badger lifted a single hand, first gesturing across the room, beyond the guard, with his index finger. Then he turned the hand around and gestured forward by curling all fingers together. He then gestured down at the dead guard's body, then flicked his thumb to the side.

From the shadows at the far end of the room, a massive coyote appeared, standing about five foot eight, with a sharp build. He wore a light gray shirt, matching pants, a black belt with a golden belt buckle, thick black gloves, and shiny black leather boots. He strode across the room silently and swiftly, his paces being twice as long as an average man's step. He brushed past the guard, kneeled down, and grabbed the body under the arms. He then lifted it up and dragged it over to the corner of the room. He grabbed a small handle protruding from the metal wall and lifted it up, pulling away a metal sheet and revealing a massive chute. In one effortless motion, he lifted the body up and into the chute, dropping it down and closing the metal sheet once it was out of the way.

"Thank you, Hans."

The coyote silently returned to the dark corner, hands folded firmly behind his back.

"Quite an advantage to living right next to a Volcano. Quick and easy to dispose of…_waste_. And that Hans is quite the loyal servant, let me tell you. Even though he can't hear a single thing I say to him. Watch this."

The badger then said loudly, "That Hans is so stupid and lazy; I'm ready to throw his worthless hide into the Volcano as well!"

The coyote was silent, staring blankly ahead as if sleeping with his eyes open.

"It's fun to mess around with that, you know."

"I'm sure it is, sir."

"Quite. Cigarette?" The badger leaned forward, the small box extended out towards Grant.

"Only if you allow me to, sir."

"Very good, Grant. You succeeded where your unfortunate young friend failed. Just testing you to make sure that you're worthy of being in my presence."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

"Very good." He then leaned back in his seat, replacing the box to his pocket once more. "And you may not have a cigarette. Because the rules clearly state that there is no smoking anywhere in the facility…unless I say otherwise.

"Now, back to your question…you see, this man has an impressive track record. He has never, ever failed a single mission; every time he has been hired to take someone out, that someone is dead within a week. He has an abundant amount of resources, money, equipment, and so on. The other thing that impressed me so much about him was the fact that never once, in his whole life, has he been caught, or even come close to being caught. He always makes sure to leave an extremely cold trail, if any trail at all. In a way, that is his signature: Leaving no signature. In essence, he is the ideal assassin: He never speaks, he never worries or fears, he never questions a job or his client. He always just gets it done. Not elaborately or specifically, unless instructed to do so. He always makes sure that his target is dead, and never leaves them with even the slightest chance of surviving. And he'll work for anything; even if he is not paid, he works for the satisfaction of the kill and knowing that he completed a mission successfully. I wish more of our men here were like him."

"I can imagine, sir."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten that you were there, Grant. I apologize if I am taking up more of your time; don't you have somewhere to be now?"

"Do you want me to come up with a story to explain Maclean's disappearance?"

"That would be perfectly satisfactory. You should go do that right now, actually. And while you're at it, try to improve your story for Davis's disappearance while you're at it. Grant, you are dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

With a bow, Grant stepped back once, pivoted around with a sharp and precise about face, and returned to the elevator, which descended down the shaft slowly, the metal doors at the top closing once it was out of the way.

The badger slowly leaned back, contemplating everything he had just said to Grant about this assassin. It wasn't even a fraction of what could be said about this man.

"I tell you, Hans." He started, knowing that his deaf servant wouldn't hear any of it. "I must admit myself; _I_ was partially frightened by that man when I first met him, as well. It was a meeting I shall never forget…"

_Seven days ago: The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Saturday, June 4, 9:04 P.M…_

_The buzz sounded lightly, piercing the silence in the chamber. The badger lifted his head in the direction of the sound, and saw that it had indeed come from the speaker on the wall, right next to the elevator doors._

_He quickly moved out of his seat and strode over across the room to the wall. He pressed the small white button beneath the speaker, and spoke into it._

"_Yes?"_

"_Sir…he's here." Reported the voice of Sergeant Davis._

"_Ah! Less than 24 hours, too. I shall bring him up. He comes in alone."_

"_Yes, sir."_

_The badger pulled a small key from his pocket and placed it into the lock just next to the white button. He turned it once, activating the elevator system. After a few seconds' wait, he pulled it back out and turned around, heading back towards the desk. He sat down in the chair and waited patiently._

_Soon, the elevator arrived. The doors slowly pulled open, and he stepped in. He was unbelievably large, standing just over seven feet. His arms and legs were like tree trunks, their incredible size clearly distinguishable even through the black jeans and black trench coat that he wore. On his feet were black work boots; not like the fancy kind of boots that the badger himself wore, but much rougher and more fit for a mountain hike or war zone than a military ball. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the black leather gloves on each hand gleaming in the pale light. His aviator sunglasses were perfectly spotless, each lens reflecting the light from the chandelier in two small gleams, and allowing absolutely no view of his eyes behind them. He didn't seem to move as he stood there for a moment; his breathing was silent, his gaze was distant, and his body motionless. Underneath one arm was an ancient typewriter, rusted and dirty, probably left over from the early 20__th__ century. Alongside it, beneath his firm grip, was a thin stack of paper._

"_Ah, it is good to see you, sir. Please, come forward and have a seat." He gestured to the open black chair in front of the desk, which, now that he had a good glimpse of the man, did not seem large enough. And even if it _was_ large enough, it would probably break under his bulk._

_He was motionless for a moment longer, then slowly moved forward. He seemed to glide across the room; his pace was the kind that, while each step was much larger and covered more distance than a regular step, he appeared to be moving slow. Fast, but slow at the same time. His footsteps were silent, even before they reached the cotton carpet. He slowly guided himself into the chair, which creaked loudly under his weight and seemed to bend, but ultimately held fast. He slowly lifted the typewriter and placed it on the desk, putting the paper next to it and placing a single sheet from the top of the pile into the typewriter itself._

"_It is an honor to welcome you to my presence, sir. I have heard many incredible stories and reports about you, your track record, your remarkable amount of successes, and your ability to elude any kind of formal communication or identification. It was quite difficult to get a hold of you, let me tell you."_

_He slowly leaned over and started typing on the typewriter, its keys clicking and clacking loudly. As he did so, the badger lifted a hand up above him and gestured to his silent, deaf servant across the room; first gesturing at Hans himself, then flicking a thumb to the elevator, followed by a "shoo" motion. Hans nodded silently, then glided out of his dark corner and into the elevator. The doors slowly closed._

_The badger returned his look to the man, who had already finished typing. He spun the writer around, leaving slight streaks of dust on the fine oak of the desktop, and faced the typed message to the badger._

_You do not need to flatter me.__ It read. __As long as you have a job for me, you are already my loyal client and temporary employer._

"_Very well. Um, might I ask about this typewriter of yours?"_

_He promptly spun it back around and typed away furiously, the keys lifting up, stamping, and falling back down in rapid succession as he typed away. When he was finished, he spun it around again._

_To remain truly and completely untraceable, I avoid any kind of communication that can give away something crucial. I do not use telephones, especially cellular phones, to avoid having a permanent call number, or my calls being traced through the telephone lines. I avoid computers and the Internet to avoid digital tracking. I do not use faxes. I do not even speak, so that my voice may never be known. If it is heard and recorded, it could lead to my capture. Thus, I use this typewriter. No electronics, no verbal communication. It is as simple as it can get._

"_Ah. Very ingenious. You work hard to not be traced. I give the fullest of credit to you. Now, tell me about yourself; your career."_

_I have been in this business almost my entire life. My father was a termination specialist as well. As was his father._

"_Um, 'termination specialist'?"_

_I prefer to not use terms such as "hit-man" "assassin." They are deriving and demoralizing._

"_I see. Go on."_

_I have worked for a number of clients, from all countries, all races, all fields of the criminal world, and even the occasional "law-abiding" citizen with a personal score to settle. I work for anyone, for any amount, and for any target. I have all the resources and expertise that I need. I do not do it extravagantly, unless instructed to do so. I simply get the job done as quickly and effectively as possible. I make sure that the target is dead, and not just faking it or mortally wounded, with a slight chance of survival. I exterminate them immediately, without pause. If they run, I follow them. I will chase a target all around the world if it means succeeding. I do not stop until the mission is complete._

"_Do you ever work for anything in particular? Do you request a certain amount of money?"_

_Monetary compensation does not concern me. I do not even care if I do not receive any in return for my services; the satisfaction of knowing that I have successfully completed a mission is enough for me. That, and the pure enjoyment of the kill._

"_Very good. I like people who do not care much for money. But I still intend to pay you, should you succeed. Because let me tell you; the targets I have in mind are terrible. They are major threats to what we plan to do here. Oh, and that reminds me: Everything that you have seen here, you are not to tell anyone."_

_Are you threatening me?_

"_Oh, goodness, no! I would never threaten you. I am just letting you know right now; our work here is top secret. Not even the Russian government knows about this place. And if they did find out, it would spell certain disaster for our operation. Just do not speak of any of this."_

_Give me my targets, and I will have never seen this place._

"_Very good. Now, let me tell you right now; you have eight targets. That isn't too much, is it?"_

_I once had to track down and eliminate 22 individual targets within 30 days._

"_I see. And…?"_

_I successfully eliminated all of them in 18 days._

"_I…see…Well, anyway; here are all of the files on your targets."_

_The badger reached down behind the desk and lifted up a sleek, silver briefcase with a firm plastic covering. He placed it on the desk and spun it around so that the handle was facing the man. He then slid it across the wood, stopping it just at the typewriter. He silently pulled open both of the locks on each side of the handle, and then lifted it open. He extracted all eight of the sand-colored folders from within and briefly sifted through each one, opening them, glancing through the images and reports, before placing them right back into the briefcase in the exact same order and position as they were before._

"_Four of them are ex-criminals, now living their lives as regular, law-abiding citizens. Two of them are still criminals. And the remaining two are law enforcement officers, one of them also a former criminal. Be warned; each and every one of them are considered extremely dangerous. Here is the order in which I would prefer that they be eliminated. The order goes from bottom to the top."_

_He reached over the desk with a single piece of paper, with seven names scrawled on it. _

_Sly Cooper_

_Bentley_

_Penelope_

_Murray_

_?_

_Lousteau_

_King_

_Fox_

_He studied the names for a brief second, then folded the paper over perfectly and neatly four times, and briefly slipped it into the briefcase as well._

"_You are up to the job?"_

_Is that a rhetorical question?_

_The badger let out a chuckle. "Very well, then. Now, about your pay…"_

_Before he could even finish, he already started typing away. By this point, he had used up the sheet and had to quickly remove it, turn it over, and start using the other side as he typed up his next message._

_I know your type. I can tell about a person – their past, their nature, their personality – just by observing their movements, their voice, their mannerisms, and their eyes. And you, sir, are the kind who is rather stingy about this kind of subject._

"_What? What are you talking about? You had better believe that I'm serious about you taking out these eight nuisances!"_

_I do not doubt that. I'm talking about the part where you pay me. I can already tell that you are suspicious of me; I understand. But as we approach the subject of money, you grow more nervous and tense._

"_Well, you must understand…we are running short on money around here. Most if it is spent on the equipment we need for manufacturing here, or on weapons and supplies for our men."_

_If I ask for too high an amount, are you going to use that weapon?_

"_Weapon? What weapon? Oh, do you mean this?"_

_He lightly patted the holster at his side. He then removed the knife from it and placed it on the desk, sliding it away from himself._

"_You see, this is my prized possession, and my greatest weapon. It is a 20-inch long blade, with two different purposes and designs on each side. One side has ragged edges like a common steak knife, meant to be strong and firm. The other edge of it – the smoother edge – is thinner than paper, and meant for quicker, precise cuts. Like a scalpel. The same goes for the tip. And the handle here has four rings on it; one for each finger, like a set of brass knuckles. This provides me with a firm grip, so that the knife may not be knocked out of my hand during combat. In addition, each ring has a small, sharp spike on top, so that even the handle can be dangerous. Again, like a pair of brass knuckles. And the entire weapon – the handle, the rings, and the blade – is specially crafted out of 14 karat gold, to insure durability and strength."_

_What an educational speech. And, while the weapon itself is quite impressive, I was referring to the handgun you are currently holding underneath the desk, aimed at me._

_The badger was stunned by this. For a brief moment, he did not know how to react. Then, with a sigh, he lifted the Les Baer .45 up from its hiding place and placed it on the desk as well, sliding it across the wood, handle towards the guest, to symbolize his meaning._

_That's better. Now, if you had lied and insisted that there was nothing under the desk, I would not hesitate to kill you right here and right now. Would that not be ironic? Especially considering that you just sent your servant at the back of the room out as I came in here._

"_I apologize for giving you the wrong idea. But you must understand; our business here is delicate. No outsider can be trusted."_

_I shall keep that in mind. Now, if I do recall correctly, you were just about to get to the subject of the price?_

"_Ah, yes. Well, to prove to you that I am not stingy about the subject of money, let me ask you this: How much was the highest amount you have ever been paid in your entire…uh, career?"_

_$6.5 million._

"_That's all? I expected a man of your stature and skill to receive more____for your work. But, then again, that just proves how cheap most of your clients must be."_

_Again, I do not care much for money._

"_Well, I don't care; the price has just been given to me. I am prepared to pay you $13 million to do this job. Are you willing?"_

_I accept._

"_Very good, very good." The badger sat up and leaned across the desk, offering his hand. The man sitting across from him simply gave him a blank stare, then typed._

_I apologize. I do not participate in these handshakes. Like I said, I avoid leaving any DNA that could serve as a trace of my identity, and fingerprints are an integral part of that._

"_Oh. I see." The badger awkwardly retracted his hand and sat back down. "But…you are wearing gloves."_

_The man did not respond, nor did he start typing up again. He simply gave the badger a blank stare._

"_Er, never mind, never mind. So…is there anything else you wish to discuss?"_

_Only two more things are currently on my mind. First of all, is there any particular set date by which you want these eight exterminated?_

"_No, my good man; you may take them out at your own pace, as you please. Just as long as you take them out subtly, and with no traces left behind that could possibly connect the murders to me or my organization."_

_Very well._

"_Um, didn't you say that there was another subject?"_

_Yes._

_He reached forward for the briefcase, then turned it sideways and opened it. He brushed aside the stack of folders and tore up the soft padding on the inside. He lifted it up with one hand, and with the other reached inside and grabbed something on the interior of the case. After a moment, he yanked his hand back out, holding a small black box, barely three inches across, with a few circuit boards on it and a single red light, currently illuminated, on the top. He held it out for the badger to see._

_He gulped._

_The man nonchalantly placed it on the desk and quickly typed again._

_Did you think that the padded interior would cover this up? Like you said, you cannot trust outsiders._

_He then grabbed the device, raised it high up above the desk, then swiftly brought it down and reduced it to fragments on the desktop, making the badger wince. Pieces of the device flew in all directions across the desk and onto the floor, and a slight dent appeared in the wood.  
><em>

_I do hope, for your sake, that this can be attributed to whatever it is your top secret business here is._

"_Y-yes. That's it. Please understand; this is extremely confidential. We cannot allow any of it to be revealed, not even the slightest detail! Please forgive me…I promise to you, swearing on all that it is we do here, that there is nothing else of that sort in the briefcase or on anything we are providing to you."_

_This is why I prefer to use my own equipment. Any weapons or provisions given to me by clients are most likely outfitted with tracking devices similar to that one. And as for your promise, I am going to assume that the elimination of these eight targets is one of your top priorities. _

"_Yes, yes it is. Just please don't abandon it now. I have not been able to find another assa- er, 'termination specialist' who is willing to do this job. And I fear that any other man I would approach after you would similarly deny it. The last few men I interviewed would either demand too much money, threaten to reveal our operation, be too unequipped for the job, or be struck with fear at some of the names I listed; especially that cursed devil at the top of the list."_

_For the sake of adding another successful mission to my past record, I will still accept this mission. To avoid any further altercation with you, Mr. Vlotho, I will now excuse myself._

"_Yes. Yes, you may go now. You will report back to me when you have finished?"_

_You shall receive an update from me after every single target is eliminated. I will report back here in person only when the mission is absolutely complete, and all eight of them are deceased._

"_Very well. I thank you again for your services."_

_The man rose, taking the typewriter, stack of paper, and the briefcase, and silently turned and headed back to the elevator. The doors opened, and Hans stepped aside as the man roughly brushed him aside and stepped in before he allowed the coyote to slip out himself. The doors slowly creaked shut, and the man was finally gone._

_The badger lifted the elevator keys out of his pocket and tossed them across the room to Hans, who casually relocked the elevator before tossing the keys back to his superior._

_The badger, after pocketing the keys, breathed a great sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair, wiping a great deal of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. He could not believe that this had just happened; he had cracked, and openly pleaded with the man. The man who didn't even speak had single-handedly dominated the conversation. The irony was sickening._

_Vlotho sighed again, quickly reaching over and grabbing both the knife and the Les Baer. He placed the former back in its sheath, and the latter into a small drawer in his desk._

_This man, silent as the grave, was intimidating, terrifying, and so confident in himself._

_For the first time since the denied handshake, Vlotho allowed a grin to appear on his face. This man was definitely the perfect assassin that he was looking for. Cooper and his friends wouldn't stand a chance._

**To be continued…**


	7. A New Resolve

A New Resolve

_Paris, France; Friday, June 10, 6:32 P.M.…_

There was not a single sound all throughout the house. The tension in the air was thicker than fog, and just as obvious. Ever since Sly left the basement, he had returned to his old room. It was still stocked up with old relics from his life as a thief. Some of his most prized possessions, favorite souvenirs, and other memorabilia within the room. Among them were his cane, hat, and belt. He had gone in, and not a single sound had come from that room. There was no movement, no sound, absolutely nothing. Bentley and Penelope had dared not to enter, instead trying to occupy their time with making preparations for the journey.

However, after nearly nine hours, it became obvious that someone had to say something to him.

Bentley slowly wheeled up to the door, taking a deep, nasally breath as he sat outside the door. He glanced back at the table, where Penelope sat twiddling her thumbs nervously. She glanced at him briefly, then turned away.

He slowly rolled up a little more, stopping just at the wood of the door. He slowly raised a gloved hand, balled it into a fist, and started to knock.

"Sly?"

Not a sound.

Bentley knocked a second time.

"Sly? You in there, pal?"

When there was no answer, Bentley took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. As it creaked open, he took one quick look around the room. Many of the glass cases had been opened and there were a few items scattered about. Sitting on the bed, the sheets still in place, was Sly. He sat with his legs hanging over the edge and elbows in his lap, holding his Cane in his hands, sideways, his eyes slowly skimming up and down its full length as if studying it.

Bentley's initial expression of shock slowly turned to concern.

"Sly…"

Sly slowly lifted his head up and looked at Bentley. Bentley had expected his eyes to be bloodshot and dry. However, to his surprise, they were quite clear. Sly had not been crying this entire time. No, it was something else. And the look in those eyes…it was a look that Bentley could not quite distinguish. It seemed to be a cross of anger and sorrow. A great, terrible suffering and anguish that was instead buried, perhaps substituted by rage, hatred, and fury. But it was fairly subtle. He did not glare as Bentley entered, nor were his fists balled or teeth clenched. He showed no signs of immediate anger. But Bentley knew full well how his friend was feeling. Nonetheless, he tried to avoid the subject.

"Sly, I…uh, just wanted to let you know that I've made arrangements for our flight. I've bought three airline tickets. The first plane takes off tomorrow evening at 5:30 sharp."

Sly held his head again and mumbled in response. Bentley wasn't completely 100% sure, but he thought that Sly had said "Thanks."

There was an awkward pause. Sly kept his eyes locked on the Cane. He lifted it out of his left hand and straightened it vertically, leading the fine weapon slid through the half-clenched palm of his right hand, where its tip smacked against the floor with a thud. He twirled it around several times, the hook spinning in full rotations.

Bentley eventually noticed, for the first time, what else was scattered on the bed. Sly's old blue hat, his belt, the red backpack from his earlier days, and the similarly red leg pouch that replaced it. All of his old gear, with the most sacred piece resting in his hand.

"Sly…" For once, Bentley found himself at a complete loss for words. Even a mind as deep as his own could not fathom the multiple emotions, the endless thoughts, the millions of speculations that were racing through his lifelong friend's head.

"Sly, I just want you to know that…" Bentley paused as Sly looked back up at him again. "I just want you to know that we're here for you. Me and Penelope. We've got your back. I know that you're hurting hard…but we'll do the best we can."

Sly repeated his mumbled version of "thanks."

This time, Bentley was convinced that the only way out was to speak his mind, giving it to him straight and simple. "Sly, I understand that you're upset about Carmelita's death…but I've seen what's happened to you. You seem to have completely lost yourself. You're not the same cocky, easy-going guy that we used to loot museums and art exhibits with all those years ago. It's like the old you died with her."

"It has."

"Look, what I'm trying to say is that now you're so…hard. Bitter. I mean, I can totally understand that…but the things you've said. Saying that all you want is the guy who did this dead…"

"I do. More than anything." Sly gripped his Cane harder.

"Sly, I can understand your pain, but you were never a murderer. You were many things. A thief, a police officer impersonator, even a recreation of Thadius Winslow Cooper. But you were never, _ever_, a murderer."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

"Sly!" Bentley was now truly appalled with what his friend said. He wasn't going to allow it anymore. "Murdering is just wrong. There's never any justification for it."

At this, Sly raised his Cane high and slammed it to the floor. The result was a sharp _crack!_ that echoed across the room, with the small confines of the room making its report even sharper and louder, even if it lasted only one second. Sly stood straight up, standing much taller than Bentley. He turned to his wheelchair-bound friend and glowered at him as he slowly approached.

He leaned in close. "Let me ask you something, Bentley. How much do you love Penelope?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? I love her more than anything else. More than my technology, that's for sure. Sure, I've known you guys longer…but she's special to me, and-."

Sly cut him off. "That's _exactly_ how I felt about Carmelita. I loved her for all I was worth. Now put yourself in my position. What would you say? What would you do? How would you feel?"

"Well, Sly, I at least think about these things for a moment…"

"No, you don't. Look. You don't understand. For right now, you won't understand. Just remember that. The only way, the one and only way, you will ever feel the pain I am feeling, think the thoughts I'm thinking, and harbor the hatred I'm feeling right now…is if Penelope were to die. To be so suddenly and brutally murdered as Carmelita was. With a knife through her chest, or a gun against her head, or maybe pushed off a 20-story building. Get it? Once that happens…_if_ that happens, _then_ you'll know. But for now…don't tell me what I can and can't do. What I can and can't think or feel or say."

Bentley was stunned, and remained staring blankly at his fuming friend. Sly did not raise his voice; this entire speech was in a whispered tone. But it was so firm and absolute that Bentley knew now how serious Sly really was.

Sly slowly stood straight up again. He looked down at Bentley, into his eyes for a moment, before he noticeably eased up, his fingers relaxing their grip on his Cane.

"Look. I'm not asking you to help me kill anyone, OK? I'd never do that. I'd never force you to do something you don't want to. All I want is his death. To know that his life ended at my hands. It's between me and him. I understand your concern…but it's none of your business."

With that, Sly turned around and strode back to the bed. He stood next to it and turned slightly in Bentley's direction, but did not look straight at him.

"If you would be so kind as to leave now, Bentley. I want to be alone again."

Bentley opened his mouth, then closed it. Sly remained with his head ever so slightly in his direction, but he was not looking at him. Bentley, without a single sound, turned his wheelchair around and left the room, closing the door behind him.

**To be continued…**


	8. Target: Guru

Target: Guru

_New York City, New York; Saturday, June 11, 10:41 A.M.…_

The air was filled with endless upon endless noise. Honking, screeching, voices, cell phones ringing, planes passing by overhead, footsteps, bicycle and pedicab bells, all forming together in a cacophony of noise that all came to him as one long blur. He was tuning out all of the sounds, clearing them from his mind and staying focused on his mission. He brushed nonchalantly through the masses. He was surrounded on all sides by all kinds of people; business men and women, tourists, homeless people, civilians late to work, mothers with little children in strollers, people in wheelchairs, and, of course, Yankee's baseball caps everywhere. He was just another member of the crowd. Another body in the flow. Another random passerby.

The long distance didn't matter to him. He much preferred walking to taking one of those city taxicabs. For one, the driver would either be a rookie who didn't know Staten Island from the Hudson River, or would probably be a nonstop chatterbox, eager for some conversation. Plus, with the traffic, driving would be slower than walking. And those cabs were not the most comfortable of transportation vehicles in New York City. Or in New York State. Plus, the walking served as exercise, rather than sitting in a cramped backseat for several hours.

All of the buildings and landmarks of Manhattan rose up in the distance, towering over the skyline; the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, Trump Tower…as he made his way towards Central Park. Of course, it wouldn't be any easier upon reaching the Park. It was a jungle within a jungle. And apparently, the top living location for homeless and favorite hangout spot for crooks and petty pickpocketers looking for some quick money.

If he encountered any, the one thing he would be most concerned about was getting some minor bloodstains on his coat.

And then, at the end of Midtown Manhattan, he finally reached it: The sudden transfer from brown and gray to lush green was a perfect juxtaposition of the best and worst of the largest city in the Western Hemisphere. The trees rose high on many sides, the grass rolled on, and civilians were taking casual strolls across the sidewalks. He continued pressing forward, heading straight into the massive Park in search of his target.

He had concluded, from his studies of the past records and little-known information on Target Number Four, that this Target was not to be taken lightly. Unlike the last three, whom he had killed swiftly and easily, this one had practically no background. His name was not even known. The world didn't even know who he was, until he suddenly appeared in the corners or backgrounds of blurry photographs of the Cooper Gang in mid-1997. A small, purple Koala who had no knowledge of the English language, and had been faintly rumored as living somewhere in the middle of Central Park. Indeed an odd location for someone who had never before visited America. But he had been rumored to have mystical powers. The ability to change his very shape and physical body to fit the form of any object he wanted. He could morph into a bush, or a rock, or a piece of garbage. Anything that would blend him in with the environment in Central Park.

As he marched deeper and deeper into the confines of the Park, the amount of passerby dwindled down. Less and less joggers and newspaper-readers appeared. It seemed to be getting quieter, the distant sounds of New York City mid-morning traffic fading away…

Suddenly, a tiger leapt out from the trees in front of him, wearing dirty boots, ragged, muddy, and torn jeans, and an equally-ruined camouflage jacket. In his left hand was a steak knife, rusted and dirty, with several teeth missing.

"You! Give me all you money!"

He betrayed not even the slightest bit of movement or shock, save for the raise of a single eyebrow.

Needless to say, it lasted barely ten seconds. The tiger was disarmed, his arm broken and twisted around behind him, fist still tightly clenching the handle of the filthy blade, and then twisted back around in front of him again, breaking it even more. His own knife was plunged right through his right eye and directly into his skull, the handle still in his hand.

He nonchalantly picked up the body, careful to avoid touching the bloody face, and proceeded to hide him in the shrubbery, burying him loosely under fallen leaves and twigs, putting him right back into the shadows from which he had leapt from moments earlier.

With a quick brush-off and clapping his gloved hands against each other, he resumed with his walk.

Once or twice, he came to some isolated patches of green that seemed thick and deep; a perfect hiding spot for this unusual Target. He would search through them casually, leaving no stone unturned and kicking up every leaf and twig he stepped on. Nothing.

Soon, he reluctantly decided to turn to the aid of some of the locals.

When he came to a couple of men who were lying on the ground, he at first didn't know whether or not they were asleep, drunk, or dead. But one slowly stirred and raised his head, looking up at him.

"Oh, howdy thar, stranger." He uttered in a raspy, broken voice, with faint remnants of a typical New Yorker accent. "Where you headed? A stroll through the park? How 'bout some spare change?"

He blankly reached into his coat and withdrew the folder. He opened it and removed the picture from where it was held in place by a paper clip. It was a fairly low-quality image of the Koala, trotting along and looking to the side, facing away from the camera. In his hand was the ever curious staff he always wielded, and attached to it was that pink orb he was reported to swing around in the air moments before he would make a "transformation."

He wordlessly flipped it around and showed it to the bum. He leaned in closely, squinting tightly.

"Oh, yeah. You lookin' for him? Ol' Lou here and I have seen that 'un." He reached over and nudged the other man, who was lying on his stomach, face buried in his hands. "Lou. Lou! Wake up."

"Huh? Whazzat?"

"Lookie here." He gestured at the image. "This gentleman here's looking for that little purple fella."

The other man, with an equally filthy appearance and hardly any teeth left (those that remained were a disgusting shade of yellow), lifted his head up and stared at the picture.

"Oh, yeah! I seen him! That there's a witchcraft practicer or whatever!"

He lightly cocked his head, silently telling him to elaborate.

"With that fancy bowling ball or whatever he's got there, he can turn into anything he wants! He cin be a garbage cin, he cin be a beer bottle, he cin be Marilyn Monroe!"

"Since when did you see him turn ina Marilyn Monroe, Lou?" The other asked in an annoyed tone.

"Just the other day!"

"Yeah, right. You wuz just drunk again."

"I wuz not!"

"Whatever." The first man turned back to the towering man above him. "Well, if you're looking for that 'un, he be just down the trail here. At the old bench that's, uh, _bin painted white_, if you know what I mean, you turn right. Then, when you come to the trash can that really needs to be emptied, turn left into the woods. You'll come to a small clearing, with a big ol' tree stump in the middle."

"That stump is where he mediates, or whatever it's called." Lou added.

"It's _mediocres_, Lou. Anyone with a brains knows that!"

"You saying I don't got a brain?"

"I've been saying that for 15 years!"

As the two continued a slurred argument, he slipped away and silently moved further into the Park, keeping an eye out for the two landmarks that they mentioned. Of course, the two men were drunken morons…but this was the only lead he had. And he assumed that, if these men were some of the long-time residents of the Park, then they might have seen him from time to time. It was better than searching aimlessly. Doing it _that _way would take days. And he intended to be back at the airport and away from this modern-day metropolitan jungle by the end of the day.

Soon, he came to the bench. Just as the man had said, the dirty, peeling brown wood it was made of was barely visible underneath a sheet of dirty white. With the slightest expression of disgust, he turned right and headed down the path. He continued along, not seeing or hearing a single soul. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the light breeze and the chirping of birds overhead. He saw one trash can on his left that was indeed overflowing with deposited waste. There was even a slight collective ring on the ground around it. He stopped and slowly approached it. He looked off into the woods behind it. It seemed that there was a slight path in the foliage, leading past many dead trees and into a brown area.

He slowly stepped off the firm concrete and stepped into the leaves with a plush, soft crunching sound. He started walking through, brushing aside branches that stuck out. As he continued along, he reached into his coat pocket and reassuringly gripped his weapon: A Colt pistol with a two-inch barrel. It was smaller than his own hand; the perfect "up-the-sleeve" type of weapon. He brought it out of his pocket and whipped out the cylindrical chamber, checking to make sure that all six bullets were inside. He flicked the pistol lightly, and the chamber locked back into place. He then retracted his left hand further into his black sleeve.

He continued along the desolate path. It all seemed so dead in these deep confines of the park. Not even a bird could be heard. The wind seemed to die in this area.

If his informant was accurate, then the wind wouldn't be the only thing dying around here soon.

Suddenly, he broke through the dead foliage. He came to a small clearing. While it was surrounded on all sides by dead vegetation, the clearing itself was a lush green, with some flowers dotting the grass. It was one long, even shade of light green, growing brighter and richer in the center, where an old tree stump sat. Just as he expected, there he was. Target Number Four. And surrounding the tree stump, sitting before him, were three dogs. All of them sat in the cross-legged positions, hands at their sides as they peacefully meditated.

He casually gripped the Colt up his sleeve, and slowly advanced.

Even though the Koala's eyes were closed, he sensed the intruder's presence immediately, as did his three pupils.

The one in the middle, wearing a white T-shirt, swiveled around to face the newcomer, instantly breaking his bearing.

"Uh-oh. Hey, Oscar?" He nudged the dog next to him.

"What is it, Owen?"

"Look."

The one called Oscar slowly turned to see what Owen had interrupted him for. He saw the towering man, and his eyes went wide as well.

The third one, on the far end, turned around to follow their gazes.

"Oh, no. Who's that?"

"How should I know, Oswald?" Oscar replied. "He's probably just another autograph hound."

"Please, no autographs! No pictures, no interviews, no nothing! This is a time when we are not disturbed!"

"For the last time, this is not a publicity stunt." Oscar calmly replied. "We are here to be enlightened."

He slowly came to a halt just behind the dog in the middle, the one called Owen. He let his eyes scan over the three jittery dogs for a moment before his eyes lifted up to the creature sitting on the tree stump.

He still sat in the meditative position, not betraying the slightest bit of emotion. His eyes remained closed. His thumbs and index fingers still against each other with the other three fingers spread out. His legs were still crossed. The Staff, with the Moon Stone attached to it, was lying against the stump at his side.

He slowly raised his left arm, the Colt steady in his hands as his finger (which was almost too large for the small trigger guard) squeezed around the trigger.

The Guru had already sensed the unannounced presence into their isolated oasis. However, he had not detected anything out of the ordinary or dangerous, up until that last moment – far too late – when he heard the sound of the hammer clicking back. He didn't even have time to open his eyes, much less reach his Staff.

Three quick shots were squeezed off, and the Guru's body tumbled backwards off the stump, collapsing in a heap to the grass.

The three dogs instantly panicked. The one named Oscar, on the far left, instantly leapt up and bolted across the grass. With one quick, effortless move, he swung his arm around and aimed steadily before firing another shot. It hit its mark perfectly, entering directly into the left side of his skull just above his ear and dropping him instantly.

"Augh! NO!"

The scream drew his attention to the third one, Oswald, behind him. He pivoted around sharply and took a split second to orient himself with where the dog was and where he was going. Within a moment, he had raised his arm steadily and fired the fifth shot. It, too, hit seamlessly and shot through his right temple, directly penetrating the skull and killing him instantly.

He slowly started to lower his arm, then remembered the third: Owen. He slowly turned his head to the side and looked down. The final dog was crawling away on his back, eyes still locked on the towering man. For a brief moment, he saw a look of concentration on the dog's face as he tried to remain silent, before he noticed that he had been caught.

"AH! No! Please, please! Please…"

He slowly aimed his arm one final time, and pulled the trigger.

That was the sixth and final bullet. Just like that, it was over. All four of them were dead. The slightest of smoke trailing from the barrel of the small pistol drifted away into the wind. The last echo of the shots died away. It was dead silent once again. As dead as the four men he had just killed. Of course, the three dogs were not on his list of targets. But, by their presence there, they had unintentionally placed their names onto the list. They were witnesses. All witnesses had to be destroyed, for they were just as dangerous.

He slowly looked around. This clearing was so isolated, he was sure that the gunshots had not sounded too far. No one would find these bodies for a long time. Definitely long enough for him to head to Los Angeles for his fifth victim.

With that, he spun around in the grass and began striding back towards the wall of dead vegetation, retracing his steps back through the Park, through Midtown Manhattan, and back to the John F. Kennedy International Airport.

**To be continued…**


	9. Nightmare

Nightmare

_Pure blackness. Pure silence, save for a slight ringing in his ears, steadily growing larger and larger. Was he spinning around? Everywhere he looked it was an even level of black, black, black, black…_

_He could not move. He could lift his legs, he could run, but he could not move. It was as if he was stuck in place, as if on an invisible, taunting treadmill. That ringing, that ringing, that ringing…_

_The ringing started to change. It continued to get louder, but now it also became deeper, like a low hum. From a ringing to a humming. That humming, that humming, that humming…_

_Then, suddenly, the humming started to waver. It remained loud and consistent, but there was now a rhythmic pounding. A loud thumping. From a ringing, to a humming, to a thumping. That thumping, that thumping, that thumping…_

_Then, suddenly, out of the darkness, a familiar object appeared, clear as day amidst all the night surrounding him. The small, blue craft was unmistakable: His late wife's helicopter, the blades thumping and thumping and thumping._

_The helicopter drew closer and closer, so close that he could now see the most painful thing he could ever see in his life: His beloved wife, Carmelita Montoya Fox, standing in the helicopter. She was standing by the open side door, looking straight into his eyes. There was no emotion at all in her brown eyes. It was a distant, forlorn look, her mouth a perfect flat line. No smile, no frown, no anger, no sadness. She simply stood there, staring at him as he stared back at her. And that thumping, that thumping, that thumping…_

_Suddenly, before he knew it, there was a rush. He felt the sensation of wind blowing past him in less than two seconds, his fur and clothing following it briefly as it rushed past. It was a dark shape, impossibly large, but just a large dark blot, as if it was a portion of the environment severed from the walls, floor, and ceiling of black all around him. It rushed past him and towards his wife. Her head cracked over several degrees, just barely enough to look at the black shape as it rushed her._

_She was swept right off her feet, and slammed back into the opposite wall of the chopper with a loud bang and a hard grunt. She slowly slid down to the metal floor, where her head slumped over. Her dull look was gone, replaced with a look of shock, and the unmistakable presence of pain. Even with her head slumped, her eyes managed to look up, look up at her attacker._

_He watched, in pure anger and hatred. He suddenly found his urge to rush the attacker build up and finally come out. He charged, sprinting with all of his might. He was moving faster and harder than he ever had in his whole life, but he could not move. As he drew closer, the helicopter drew farther and farther away. Even as he slowed down, so did the helicopter slow down as it moved away from him like two magnets of the same charge. And all the while, there was that thumping, that thumping, that thumping…_

_A small portion of the black figure materialized into an appendage, stretching out from the main shape, plain, dull, and featureless. Then, suddenly, it appeared. It did not emit from the appendage, nor did it slowly fade into existence. It was just _there_. The knife. The unmistakable, horrible, unforgettable steak knife, with its blade clean and gleaming. As the knife appeared, the thumping changed. It was no longer the dull, constant rhythm of one thump following the other in perfect succession. Now, it was two thumps, much closer together, followed by a pause, then two more thumps. Succeeding pairs of thumps. Thump-thump…thump-thump…thump-thump…_

_He continued running, but could only watch in pure horror as the appendage swung down, blade at the tip. He could hear the horrible sound of the blade punching through flesh; a juicy, meaty sound as it pierced the meat, between the bones, and into the heart. Suddenly, the thump-thump lurched, halfway between the second thump. After a brief pause, it started moving at a rapid pace, almost like the consistent thumping that it was a moment ago._

_Thump-thumpthump-thumpthump-thumpthump-thump…_

_Then, as the appendage slowly moved away and left the knife stuck in her chest, blood leaking down out of the wound, the thump-thump started to decrease. It was back to it's pattern of pairs, but was moving much slower._

_Thump-thump…thump-thump… …thump-thump… … …_

_Then the thumping started to grow slower between thumps._

_Thump…thump… … …thump …thump… … … …thump…thump… … … … …_

_The appendage retracted into the figure, and it remained there, hovering in front of his dying wife. His eyes moved back and forth between her and the figure._

_Thump…thump… … … … … …thump … …thump… … … … … … …_

…

_Then it was silence. The ringing, turned into the humming, turned into the thumping, turned into the thump-thumping, had now turned to silence. There was no movement from Carmelita. She lied there, motionless, blood trickling down. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his anger was boiling wildly._

_Fists clenched, he turned to face the figure. It hovered there, motionless, as motionless as the dead Carmelita. He couldn't tell which end was the front and the back; it was just one big cloud of dark._

_Then, just as the knife appeared in its appendage, two piercing, beady, sharp yellow eyes appeared on what he figured was its head. The small black pupils narrowed on him, and the tops of the eyes slanted down as if invisible eyebrows were furrowing angrily over them._

_Suddenly, it rushed at him. Before he could even react, the helicopter completely vanished from view as he was enveloped by the black shape. The only thing he could see were those horrible yellow eyes, locked on him…_

"Sir?"

Sly's eyes shot open, and he jolted briefly in his seat, clenching the armrests as tightly as he could. His eyes darted around like a housefly escaping a flyswatter. Eventually, they landed on the window to his left, where there was a long, endless flat terrain of earth below, with the houses and the green fields in their repeating square patterns. Every now and then, a cloud would come between the jet and the ground. Just outside his window was the massive wing of the plane, with the low hum of the engines still audible.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Sly's eyes darted to the opposite direction, where the stewardess stood next to him with a slight look of concern.

"Um…yeah. I-I'm fine. I'm fine. Thank you."

With one last look at Sly, she turned on her heels and moved on.

Sly remained in his seat, clenching the armrests of his chair and looking straight ahead. He was aware of a pair of eyes on him, and looked to his right, where an elderly woman across the aisle from him was giving him a strange look. He didn't know what to do, so he simply looked forward again until he could sense that she was no longer staring at him, and had returned to reading her magazine.

Slowly, Sly allowed one hand to stroke the itchy, uncomfortable beard he was wearing, pretending to stroke it casually when he was actually adjusting it subtly. If there was one thing he hated, it was the stupid and ridiculous disguises that he had to wear whenever he traveled. It was the one thing he was glad to be rid of when he left behind his life of crime.

He heard a slight rustling behind him and to the right. After a moment, the nasally voice whispered to him through the crevice between Sly's seat and the one empty seat to his right, "Sly, what was that all about? I could see your chair shake from back here."

Sly was still recovering from his nightmare. He shook his head once more, careful not to cause his beard to slip, and also brushed his fingers over his forehead to make sure his fake unibrow was also still in place. After a moment, he was able to respond.

"It was…nothing." He replied, still using his fake gruff voice even as he whispered to one of the only two people on the plane who knew his true identity.

Not completely convinced, Bentley leaned back and gave a brief glance to Penelope at his side. She shook her head and returned to the novel she had been reading for some time now. Bentley turned to look out the window next to him, his thoughts as distant and unreachable as the clouds below.

…

About eight rows behind and across the aisle, the monkey lowered his newspaper slightly and glanced over it at the raccoon. He was now leaning forward in his seat, burying his face into his hands. He could barely see the mouse sitting in the seat directly behind him, watching him from behind.

He lifted the magazine and turned his head sideways to speak to the mouse in the seat next to him.

"Looks like he had a pretty good jolt over there."

"Surprised his beard didn't come off." Whitman commented.

"So what do we do when they meet up with the hippo?"

"Well first of all, we have to catch solid evidence of them committing some sort of crime. So simply having a meeting with the hippo won't be good enough."

"Are you nuts? The four of them together in the same room. It's perfect evidence. It's all we need."

"Trust me, Glen. These days, with shows like CSI and that crap, everyone expects perfect, solid, undisputable evidence. The smoking gun. Until then, everything's hypothetical. Trust me; I've been on the force longer than you. I know the tricks of the trade, as well as its demands."

"Fine." Whitman muttered.

Braskel then went back to actually reading the newspaper. Whitman turned and looked out the window.

**To be continued…**


	10. Los Angeles

Los Angeles

_Los Angeles, California; Saturday, June 11, 8:27 P.M…_

"…And then he yanks me aside while I'm stopped, and he gets right up into my face and spits at me, 'That was on purpose, you arrogant little jerk! I saw it with my own eye! That does it; you're fired!' And they kicked me right out of the league after that! I mean, come on! I was the best young driver they'll ever see, and they kicked me right out!"

"But, _was_ the crash on purpose?" Penelope asked.

"Well…maybe. I mean, the guy flipped me off as he passed by me! He totally had it coming!"

Normally, Sly and Bentley would've been bored by another one of Murray's enthusiastically-narrated stories. But, since their two flights here – the first being from Paris to the JFK Airport in New York City, and the second being from JFK to LAX International in Los Angeles – had been almost completely silent, as well as the fact that this was the first time they had all been back together in person in eight years, they were just glad to see their friend again, and listened to his story just as intently as Penelope was. It had been Bentley's suggestion that they meet up with Murray first, see if he wanted to help out. Penelope agreed, and Sly had simply nodded his agreement silently.

"But anyway; that's how it happened. So I got canned, and the next closest thing I could get to that job was working at the local Royal Quick Lube." Murray shook his head in disgust as he spit out the last three words.

"Sorry, pal." Sly said as he patted his old friend on the shoulder.

"It's alright. I mean, at least I've still got the van with me."

"And she doesn't look a day over 20 years old." Sly remarked.

"I know, right?" Murray replied, completely oblivious to the joke. "Now, about this whole, uh, trip, that you have planned…you basically want me to come with you?"

"Why not? You and the van are the best transportation that we could ask for. You don't ask questions, and you're willing to go into dangerous territory with your eyes closed. And besides that…it won't be the same without you. It'll be just like the old days."

"Well, in order to do that, I'd have to ask for a little vacation from the RQL…and they might fire me for asking for something like that."

He paused for a moment.

"OK, I'm in."

"Good."

"After all, if we _do_ encounter some bad guys, then I'll get to crack some skulls for the first time in…how long has it been?" He briefly turned back towards Bentley as he asked this.

"Eight years."

"Eight years? Dang, I really _have_ been out of it. Yep; I'm ready for this."

"Good."

"We can head back to my place first; you guys can spend the night there, if you want. You know, rest for a bit?"

"A generous offer, but we can't afford to waste too much time. And it's early enough as it is. Barkley has given me five days of leave, which started earlier today."

"Oh, yeah; that reminds me. How _did_ you manage to convince your boss to give you five days off? Didn't you say that those two guys told him about your ideas of getting revenge?"

"Yeah, they did. But he was still willing to give it to me, surprisingly. My guess is that either it's because he doesn't trust Braskel and Whitman that much, or because I was able to use my sickness from earlier as a boost to my chances. Either that, or maybe he was just glad to get rid of me for a little longer."

"Well, whatever the reason is, the point is that you have five days off, so let's make the most of them."

"Right. So we'll head back to your house for a bit, prepare and relax, while I make preparations for our next flight to Russia. The Volcano isn't too far from Russia's eastern coast, so it shouldn't be any further than our last two flights were."

"Sounds good. But…do you really think that we're gonna run into some serious trouble there? I mean, we have no idea who we're dealing with. That's not including this guy who apparently killed Inspector Fox."

"Who _did_ kill Inspector Fox, pal."

"Uh, right. He _did_ kill her. Well, anyway, even if it _is_ just that guy, then who knows what we're gonna run into, right? Anyone?"

The silence that replied was enough to tell the hippo that no one could answer his question. For the remaining few minutes, the four occupants of the van remained in this strong, heavy silence, unaware of the police car, several vehicles behind them, stealthily trailing them.

…

He had been on his way to the Royal Quick Lube that his sources told him was the place where the hippo was currently employed. However, on the way there, he had seen the familiar, unmistakable van pass by in the opposite lane, deprived of the infamous raccoon icon on the side, but still the same exact shape and design. He had been subtle, of course, and waited for about ten seconds before quickly performing a U-turn and following them. As they moved through the traffic, he always remained several car lengths behind them, following them at every turn, but remaining at least one lane over and never directly behind them.

As they turned right at another intersection and entered a suburban area, he briefly placed a firm hand on the newest weapon he had achieved: The Colt pistol in his holster. It really had been quite fortunate for him to stumble upon an off-duty officer, in his patrol car, alongside a fence just outside the airport after he had arrived, smoking a cigarette. He had figured that he might as well get some kind of leverage while he was here, especially considering the traffic.

Of course, the pistol and shotgun already in the car was nothing compared to his other trusted weapons, still secure in one of the lockers in the helicopter. He didn't trust the personnel at the LAX Airport anymore than he trusted one of his clients. But, just for safety, he had brought along one of his own pieces: A fully-loaded Uzi 9mm, with several spare clips on the seat next to him.

The van turned into the suburbs, but he decided to hang back and let them get a bit of a head start. He turned in after them when he knew it was right, and barely managed to catch a glimpse of it disappearing around another corner. He slowly and carefully followed behind.

For about another minute, he followed by the slightest of glimpses of the van disappearing around corners. Eventually, he traced it to a large, two-story, white house on a corner. He watched from afar as it pulled into the garage after the massive door opened, then slowly closing behind them.

He reached over and put the car in Park, then turned the ignition off. He left the keys in the ignition, ready for a quick start if necessary. He reached over to the passenger seat and quickly checked the Uzi, making sure that it was loaded.

…

Within a few more silent minutes, they finally made it into the suburbs and pulled slowly into the driveway of Murray's house. After they pulled into the garage and entered the house itself, everyone was stunned at the unusual elegance of it; large, two-stories tall, even with a few chandeliers in it.

"Whoa." Penelope said.

"Murray, this…this place is amazing!" Bentley agreed.

"Yeah. You'd be surprised how much I got paid while I was in the league, despite my short time on it. There's several rooms upstairs you guys can stay in." As Murray closed the garage door behind him, he hung his keys on a small hook on the wall just next to the door.

"The kitchen's down the hall there, but I always order out, anyway. This is the living room, right next to us."

Sly walked ahead into the living room, with two couches, a chair, a coffee table, and a wide-screen TV against a wall with three large windows in it. The front door was in the opposite wall, just next to the TV screen, with its polished oak wood, golden handle, and stained glass. Sly tossed his bag onto one of the nearby couches. "Again, we appreciate the offer, but I wouldn't suggest unpacking."

The others followed him into the living room.

"Why?" Penelope asked. "We can't always be on the move."

"Yes we can. Like I said, I think it's best if we don't stay here for too long."

"Why, Sly?" Bentley pressed. "Do you think that somebody's after us, or something?"

"Well…I don't know. I just have a feeling that…we're all in danger."

"How do you know?"

"I don't, OK? I just have a feeling inside me that's telling me that every second we stay stationary is another second closer to danger."

"Sly, you can't just automatically assume that this guy who killed Carmelita, whoever he is, is some kind of assassin. Who knows? You said yourself that Carmelita's made plenty of enemies…"

"You're missing the point, Bentley. Knowing that the Volcano is involved only makes it even more obvious that this is someone we've dealt with before. This guy who killed her is probably a hit man. And I said that the attack against her was more of an attack on us. I just…I just don't want to wait around to run into this guy."

"But you're so determined to get your revenge…"

"But we have no idea what we're up against, OK? For all we know, he could be an eight-foot tall Terminator, the size of a tank and with a whole National Guard armory on him! Do you really want to face off against someone like that?"

There was only silence.

"I didn't think so. So you might as well just put your stuff here and try not to get too comfortable."

The others reluctantly followed suit and placed their luggage onto the couch at the far end of the room. Sly sat down on the other couch, more in the center of the room, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a map. The others gathered around him as he unfolded a section of it: The west coast of North America, the Pacific, and the east coast of Russia. Bentley and Murray were behind the couch, looking over Sly's shoulder at the map, while Penelope stood on Sly's right, leaning over to get a look at it.

"OK, so if we're going to bring the old van along – which I assume we will – then any mode of aerial transportation is automatically ruled out. We'll have to be more subtle, and take a form of transportation that's better fit for transporting automobiles overseas. We'll take a ferry. There's a small harbor on the outskirts of the city…here." He pointed at the spot on the map. "We'll board a ferry heading across the Pacific, and arrive here in-."

Then, all of a sudden, the front door flew open. Kicked from the outside, it flew halfway off its hinges, sending splinters of wood flying and knocking the door frame itself out of place. The four occupants immediately lifted their heads up to see the intruder.

He was a massive police officer, at least seven feet tall. He was pure muscle, built like three tanks. He had a fully equipped officer's belt, complete with a pistol. However, his true weapon was in his hands: an Uzi 9mm, firmly grasped in both his hands and aimed right at them.

Almost immediately, they reacted, diving out of the way as the intruder unleashed a hail of bullets on the spot where they had all been standing moments earlier. Sly threw the map down and instinctively grabbed Penelope as he dove around the corner, while Bentley and Murray were forced to go the opposite direction, and ducked down behind the couch. The intruder's bullets tore up furniture, pictures, walls, and everything in its path. He turned the weapon towards the corner where two of them had gone, and continued shooting. Sly had to jump back when several of the bullets actually shot through the wall.

Almost immediately, Bentley was freaking out.

"AUGH! What the heck is going on here? Who is that?"

"I don't know, but this guy sure as hell means business!" Sly replied.

"What are we going to do? We have to get out of here!" Penelope stated loudly.

"My van!" Murray yelled across the room. "In the garage!"

"OK!" Sly yelled back. "Everyone to the van!"

"But Bentley and Murray!" Penelope replied.

"I'll get them, you don't have to worry. Just go!"

With one nervous glance back in Bentley's direction, Penelope bolted for the garage.

Sly slowly reached for his service piece. He removed it from the holster and checked the magazine. Full, ten bullets. He reloaded it and held it steadily with both hands. When a pause came in between shots, he thrust the gun around the corner and fired four blind shots.

The intruder saw the gun the moment it swung around the corner, and retreated through the doorway and behind the wall as the bullets shot through the space where he had been standing moments earlier. Sly peeked around and saw the blur of his body disappear behind the wall just outside. He fired two shots at the wall, hoping that they would pass through and hit him.

"Sly! Are you crazy? That wall's made out of solid cement! Good luck shooting through that!"

Sly held his fire and turned briefly towards Murray. At that moment, his ears perked up. He could hear the clicking sound of something detaching, pulling loose from a socket.

He was reloading.

"Quick! He's reloading! Bentley, get over here now!"

Murray helped put his friend's wheelchair back upright, after lying on the ground to duck out of the intruder's line of vision, and he instantly started wheeling towards Sly as fast as he could. At that moment, the intruder appeared in the doorway again, Uzi aimed.

"Bentley!" Sly reached out and took hold of the front of his friend's wheelchair, yanking him behind the corner just as the shower of bullets tore up the wall behind him. Bentley retreated further back even after he was around the corner, and tore into the garage, gasping and breathing heavily.

"Bentley, start the van up once you get in!"

"Keys!"

Sly repeated the word to Murray, across the room from him.

"On the wall next to the door, hanging from a hook!"

Bentley soon found the keys and snatched them up. As he entered the garage, Sly yelled back at his friend, "What are you gonna do? We can't leave you here!"

"I'll find a way out! Just go and start up the van!"

Then, at that moment, the intruder suddenly stopped shooting. They could hear a metallic click, then something clatter to the floor.

He was reloading again.

Almost immediately, Sly's mind raced. He had to find a way to save his friend. His eyes darted around the large living room, eventually glancing up at the massive chandelier. An idea formed in his head in less than a second. He raised his piece again and squeezed off three more shots blindly, stunning the intruder. He then turned and raced for the stairs, flying up them three steps at a time. He raced all the way to the top, and then across the overhanging area until he was directly across from the massive piece of crystal. He backed up just as he heard the click of a fresh clip being inserted into the intruder's gun. He then raced forward, leaping at the last second and just barely clearing the ledge. He soared through the air, a story above the floor. The intruder looked up and saw him instantly. He aimed his gun and fired wildly, the bullets tearing up the ceiling. Sly managed to land on the chandelier, rocking it side-to-side. The intruder aimed right at the point where the chandelier connected to the ceiling, and fired. The bullets tore up the thin wiring, shattering several of the crystals and causing it to lean to one side awkwardly.

As the chandelier jerked, Sly slid off the edge, only managing to hang on with the hook of his cane. The sudden shift in weight did the rest of the damage on the small metal plate holding it in place, and it snapped. The wires shot out, and the massive chandelier fell straight down. It landed on the floor below, smashing in on itself from the impact despite landing on a carpeted floor. Sly barely managed to throw himself off before the hundreds of crystal shards flew in all directions. There was a spark from the electrical wires, and a shower of sparks shot out, landing on the carpet and one side of the couch Murray was behind.

That was all it took.

Small blazes formed on both the carpet and Murray's hiding place. Soon, they grew. The flames started to consume everything in the room, and the intruder had to stop briefly, slightly stunned by this unexpected turn. Murray, behind the couch, didn't know what was going on, but figured that the ruined chandelier and the fire would make enough cover. He leapt to his feet and dashed out from behind the couch, racing across the room behind the chandelier to the corner of the wall, where Sly was also hiding. He could hear the bullets of the intruder's Uzi following him as he ran. The two of them made it around the corner, away from the bullets and the heat, and made a mad dash for the garage.

The intruder stopped, looked around at the damage around him, and grinned slightly. He paused for a moment, expecting some kind of return fire from the targets. But there was none. His Uzi raised, he took a step forward.

In the garage, the van was already started up, courtesy of Bentley. Both he and Penelope were in the back of the van. Sly and Murray came racing in, jumping into the driver's seat and passenger's seat, respectively.

"Alright, gun it! Get us out of here!"

"Wait just a second!" Murray shot back. Grabbing a small, black box that hung from his keychain, he pressed a button in the center of it. There was a loud clanging of metal, then the sound of gears and other mechanism working as the garage door opened.

"You didn't think I was gonna just ram through it, did you? In reverse? This isn't a movie! I don't have enough room to gain enough speed to back right through it!"

When the garage door was halfway up, Murray finally threw it into reverse and started backing up. Just then, the wooden door in the opposite wall was kicked open, and the intruder came out, weapon aimed. He had heard the sound of the garage door opening, and knew that he had to hurry. Panicking, Murray slammed on the gas, speeding out in reverse, and scraping the bottom of the rising door with the roof of the van, but ultimately making it out in one piece.

The intruder raised his gun just as Murray turned the wheel to the right as he backed out.

"Get down!" Murray yelled.

Both Sly and Murray ducked quickly as the bullets tore through the passenger side window, and put many holes in the right side of the van as it turned in the street. The tires screeching loudly, Murray put it into drive, and slammed the pedal even harder. The van peeled down the street, leaving two rubber tracks in its wake.

The intruder, still hardly fazed, dashed out of the garage and was up to his police car in an instant. He yanked open the driver side door, jumped in, put it into drive as well, and took off after his targets.

The van rounded a corner, barely missing another car as it was turning onto their street, which honked loudly as they passed by.

Sly looked out his shattered window as they sped off, and saw no sign of their attacker.

"Oh…thank God." He muttered as he slid into the seat, putting his sweaty palm over his eyes.

"OK…let's try to get a hold of this situation, calmly…WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?" Bentley exclaimed.

"I don't know…but that guy was using a really tough gun!" Murray replied. "An Uzi 9mm, and in very fine condition."

"Murray, we're not discussing the kind of guns he's using; we're trying to figure out what the heck he was doing, and why he was trying to kill us!" Sly explained.

"Well, he's a cop…"

"Oh, no way." Bentley interrupted.

"What? Why not?"

"Because," Bentley explained. "LA cops are supposed to be very well-armed; don't get me wrong on that. But in all my years, I'm still yet to see a cop who carries an _Uzi_ around on him regularly! And besides that, he totally just barged in, and opened fire on us just like that! That violates the ROE for all police officers."

"'ROE'?" Sly asked.

"Rules of Engagement. Cops don't just start shooting at a criminal; they have to wait until the criminal shoots first. That's two strong things going against him, so I seriously doubt that he's a police officer. Not LA police, not any kind of badge."

"OK, so what are you suggesting?" Penelope asked.

"That whoever this guy is, he's not a cop!"

Sly's eyes widened, then slowly squinted again as he furrowed his eyebrows and gritted his teeth. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"It's him."

Suddenly, there was the sound of screeching tires behind them. Sly leaned out his window and looked behind them just in time to see the police cruiser round a corner, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

"Here he comes again!"

"Faster!" Penelope exclaimed.

Murray slammed on the pedal, but the cruiser was already gaining. Bentley, stretching out of his wheelchair to see through the rear door's window, could see the attacker leaning out his window, Uzi in hand…

"Uh-oh! Duck!"

Penelope hit the floor as Bentley instructed, and Bentley and Sly crouched in their seats, cradling their heads in their hands. The bullets started streaming out, pelting the rear side of the van. The multiple inward dents instantly appeared, small blemishes in the sleek gray metal. One of the rear windows exploded, shards of glass flying inside the van.

Murray swung his head around and saw the damage. "Aw, man! He's tearing up my van!"

"We have to fight back here!" Bentley declared.

"Murray, you wouldn't happen to have any weapons in here by any chance? My piece alone won't be enough." Sly asked from his defensive position.

"Who do you think I am? Rambo?"

After a pause, he quickly finished, "OK, so I kinda am…but I don't have any guns on me! I never expected something like this to happen!"

"And you always talk about being prepared…" Sly muttered, shaking his head. He glanced to the side, seeing the massive freeway now towering above them, the suburbs to their right.

"The freeway! Take the freeway!"

"What? From here? We'll be going the opposite way!"

"If you're as good as you say you are, then you can handle it! Besides, that guy cannot be suicidal enough to follow us through that!"

"This is a bad idea…" Murray muttered. He looked ahead of them and saw the exit ramp coming up on their right. He whispered a prayer. "OK, everyone! Hang on tight!"

"Wait! What are we supposed to-."

Bentley's question was cut off as he and Penelope were thrown quickly to the side by Murray's jerking the wheel hard to the left. They dashed up on the off-ramp, narrowly avoiding an exiting car. They flew up the rest of the ramp and emerged on the freeway, endless upon endless headlights approaching them.

"Oh, God…"

"OK, just stay tight!"

Murray started maneuvering quickly, dodging cars like speeding bullets and swerving between lanes. Honks and rushes of air were all around them, and Bentley was cowering underneath his computer console.

"We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die…"

Murray swore as he barely weaved around an oncoming van, which honked loudly and screeched its tires.

"How much longer should we do this?" Murray asked loudly.

Suddenly, a majority of the cars started pulling aside, swerving into other lanes or pulling over to the divider.

"What the…?"

"They're clearing a path! Sweet!"

"Uh, that's not so sweet, Murray."

"Why?"

Sly jerked a thumb behind them. Murray glanced in his side view mirror…

…which shattered instantly as a bullet dashed it to pieces.

"Oh, you've gotta be sh-."

The hail of gunfire silenced him again, and the incessant sound of sirens behind them grew louder.

"Come on! Will this _thing_ ever give up?"

"Just keep driving!"

Murray looked behind him, growled, then looked forward again.

"Hang on!"

"Wait! What are you-WOAH!"

Sly screamed and clutched his seat in panic as Murray braked hard and swung the wheel to the left a full 90 degrees, screeching loudly and sending steam off the asphalt from the burning of rubber. A station wagon had to screech to a halt to avoid them, and Murray wasted no time in gunning it again, now facing the direction of the general traffic. He sped right past the attacker, who was too stunned to shoot at them. Instead, he followed suit, screeching completely around and chasing after them again.

Now, with traffic flowing with them instead of against them, it was only easier for the attacker.

"OK, this is getting ridiculous!" Sly yelled as the next wave of bullets started slowly but surely tearing up their van. "We've _got_ to find a way to fight back!"

"There must be something…I've got it!" Bentley declared loudly.

"Please share it with us, if you don't mind!"

"I think there's still a crate of my old bombs in here!"

"Say what?" Murray exclaimed, shocked. "You mean I've been driving around all these years with bombs in the back of my van?"

"Well, I'm not sure if they're still active, given how old they must be…"

"Where are they?"

"Here, under the computer console…"

Sly quickly dove over his seat and tore for the console, pulling open the cabinet-like doors underneath it and reaching inside. He pulled out an average pillow-sized, square wooden crate. He wasted no time in shoving the hook of his cane under the sealed lid and throwing his weight down on the stem of his cane, working it like a lever and prying the lid right off. As Bentley said, there were dozens upon dozens of his original, orb-like bombs lined with red lights.

"Wow…" Sly grabbed one and pulled it out.

"Now, if they were still operational, you'd just have to press the single light on the top to activate it, and from there you'd have exactly three seconds before det-."

Sly pressed the light, and all of the other lights started flashing. All eyes widened, and Bentley gasped. "It _is_ live! Sly, get rid of-."

"On it!" Sly raced over to the broken rear window and chucked it out. It bounced along the pavement for one more second before exploding. The fantastic blast, still considerably large and powerful for its size, obstructed their view of the pursuer's car for a moment before it burst through the still-lingering ball of orange and black, Uzi blazing.

"OK, so that one missed, but at least we've got…hey! Where are you going?"

Sly had already grabbed the crate and ran back to the passenger's seat. "Murray, slow down!" He commanded as he started to roll down the window.

"What? Why?"

"Just do it! Trust me!"

Murray slowly eased his foot off the pedal a little more, reducing their speed to 130 mph.

Sly leaned out the window with another bomb in hand. He paused for a moment, then pressed the top light and tossed it. The bomb exploded just ahead of the attacker's car once more. He reached in, unfazed, and grabbed another one. He pressed it, then paused a second before tossing it. The explosion, again, was too early. Sly cursed and fell back inside the safety of the cab.

"Reduce the speed even more! I want this guy right on our tail!"

"I hope you know what you're doing!"

"Of course he doesn't!" Bentley argued. "Not even God knows what he's doing!"

"Thank you for the input, partner." Sly growled.

Murray eased the speed again, the speedometer falling down to 115.

"Lower…"

110.

"Lower!"

The speed fell even lower to 90.

"OK, good!"

Sly then grabbed two bombs, one in each hand, and leaned out the window once more. Pressing the lights on both bombs simultaneously, he tossed them right out just as the attacker swerved over to their right to avoid hitting them. Both bombs bounced over towards it. He swerved hard, ducking behind them again as both bombs exploded where his cruiser had been moments earlier.

"OK, I scared him that time!" Sly declared. He was quickly silenced and forced to retreat when the cruiser emerged on their side again. Another stream of bullets tore up the van along its side, shattering the remaining side view mirror.

"Whoa!" Sly yelled as he fell into his seat. "This guy means business!"

Without the mirror, Sly had to listen for the engine of the cruiser. He closed his eyes and listened intently.

"Sly?" Murray asked when he saw his friend's eyes close suspiciously. "What are you…"

"Shh!" Sly held up a finger and listened. The hum grew louder. "He's right alongside us."

"How do you know that?"

"Just trust me. With the mirror out, I don't want to trust leaning out the window to see. Bentley! Penelope! Is he right behind us?"

Penelope raced over to the remaining rear window and looked out.

"Nope! He's nowhere in sight…"

"Uh-oh." Sly groaned as his eyes widened. "Murray! Ram to the side, right now!"

"You got it, Sly!" Murray jerked his wheel to the right, immediately slamming them against another large, unseen, hard object with a loud scraping of metal. The screeching of tires was heard. Sly almost instantly grabbed another bomb and pressed it, launching it out the window after a second's pause. He waited for the explosion. They heard it, as loud as ever right beside them. The impact rocked their van slightly, steering them to the side a little and barely missing a civilian Prius.

"OK, he's backed off!" Sly declared, grabbing three more bombs, pressing them all one at a time and launching them consecutively. Three explosions, one after the other, rang out as the bombs detonated behind them. They could hear the screeching, followed by more gunfire. More dents appeared in their van, and Murray started swerving wildly between lanes.

"Argh! We can't keep this up forever, you know!" He yelled angrily. "He's just gonna shoot up the whole van!"

"Murray's right, Sly! You've got to try something new!"

"Alright, fine! You want new?" Sly shot back. "I'll give you something new!"

Sly then grabbed the crate, still plenty full, and jumped over the seat. He raced over to the rear doors.

"I've got another idea!"

"Oh, great! What now?"

"Get behind me!"

"What?"

Sly then reached behind him and shoved both Bentley and Penelope behind him with a swipe of his arm. He peeked through the remaining window, and could see the cruiser backing off, the arm and Uzi still hanging out the window.

"OK, hang on!" Sly then kicked open the rear door opposite them, swinging out and letting a rush of air in.

"Augh!" Bentley cried as he cowered behind the closed door. "Are you crazy?"

"That's why you're behind this door! Murray, heads up!"

"What? Why? What for?"

Just then, another stream of shots started tearing through the newly vacant opening, tearing up the back of the passenger's seat, the dashboard, glove compartment, and right side of the windshield.

"What the friggin' heck? Aw, man! SLY!"

"Trust me, pal! It's all part of the plan!" Sly yelled back.

"That's usually my line."

Sly placed the crate down at his feet, pulling out a single bomb. He looked back out the window and saw the arm retract for yet another reload.

"Come on! How many rounds can this guy have?"

"Usually, I'd say that this is similar to a past case…but it's not!" Bentley answered.

"Meaning?"

"I've never seen a guy like this before! Never! He seems to have a whole arsenal on him!"

"And he probably does." Sly looked back out the window. Through the cruiser's windshield, he could see the empty clip come out.

"OK, hang on!"

Sly then pressed the top light of the bomb in his hand. Without hesitation, he dropped it back into the crate.

"SLY! WHAT ARE YOU-."

"Just watch!"

Sly grabbed the crate, with the single live bomb inside on top of the dozens of remaining ones, and tossed it out the open door. He watched as the crate spilled out onto the road behind them, bombs flooding from it and scattering into their pursuer's path.

He could see the look of shock on the man's face as he fumbled with putting the Uzi down and grabbing the wheel, attempting to turn at the last moment.

But it was too late.

The bomb Sly had activated detonated, immediately setting off the chain reaction just as he had intended. An entire field of them went off, right underneath the pursuer's cruiser.

He didn't even have time to brace for impact as the multiple powerful explosions rocked the cruiser and sent it flying, flipping up over itself and upside-down on the road. The lights on top of the cruiser were obliterated, shattering as they were crushed between the bulk of the vehicle and the hard pavement. The roof was also being chewed away with a sickening scraping sound as the injured vehicle continued sliding, the man inside bracing himself against the ceiling.

"Yes!" Sly cheered.

"Wow! It actually worked!"

"Good job, Sly!" Penelope congratulated.

"What happened? Is he dead?"

"No. Not dead." Sly replied.

"Incapacitated? Yes." Bentley answered.

"What does that mean?"

"It means don't stop!" Sly interjected.

The cruiser continued sliding towards them, a shower of sparks flying from underneath it. Murray was quick to pick up speed, nearly throwing Sly from the van. He was quick to reach out with his cane, grab the open door, and pull it closed. Through the window, he watched the next, incredible scene unfold.

As the bulk of the cruiser finally started to slow down, a Toyota Tacoma was coming up right behind it. Sly watched as it swerved hard to the left to avoid hitting the injured car. He watched incredulously as it tore across the next two lanes…

…and was obliterated by a massive red semi, carrying two matching red V-shaped trailers of wheat behind it. The white pickup was destroyed in the ball of fire as it was smashed against the flat grille of the semi. He could see the look of horror on the larger truck driver's face as the smoke and fire started to obscure his vision. In his panic, he also swerved, this time to the right. At the same time, Sly could hear the screeching of brakes as the massive behemoth was thrown violently to the side. He watched as the perfectly still wheels, steam coming from them, started to lift off the ground…as the semi started to flip over.

"Oh, God…"

The semi flipped onto its side, the tops of the trailers and the cab facing towards them. Sly watched in pure astonishment as the tons of wheat poured from the open tops, spilling onto the road. The trailers themselves were stretched out across all four lanes, cutting off all traffic instantly. Sly glanced over to the one lane that was still fairly open; the one on the far left. That lane was occupied by another semi, this one with an elongated hood, and the truck itself was a dark gray. Behind it was a long, cylindrical, silver tank. This truck driver, fortunately, had the sense to simply slam the brakes rather than swerve, and the screeching tires managed to halt the truck just as it scraped against the overturned cab of the first truck, with the burning wreckage of the Tacoma right in front of it. By now, the white truck was a scorched black, and flames shot from the cab and windows.

In less than thirty seconds, four vehicles were involved in one massive crash that blocked all traffic behind for miles…and it was caused by them.

Sly could feel the blood rush from his face as this dark realization hit him. Beside him, Penelope could only gasp. He could hear a whistle from Murray behind him in the driver's seat.

"Damn."

"Well…" Penelope uttered. "At least we…stopped…_him_, right?"

"Yeah…But we also killed at least two people. Two innocent _civilians_."

By now, Murray had screeched to a halt, yards from the tragic scene. Sly pushed the rear door all the way open and jumped out, taking several steps away from the van. As he stared mutely at the tragic scene, he could feel his knees start to buckle under him. As he sank to the ground, his head slowly started to hang. By now, the twilight had fully settled into darkness, reflecting the heavy mood hanging in the air around the four friends…

…

Meanwhile, just on the other side of the scene of destruction, beyond the overturned semi, the rows and endless rows of cars had screeched to a halt. The burning inferno of the pursuer's police cruiser lay on its roof, the siren uttering its dying sounds. On the ground a few inches away was the Uzi, broken in the middle.

And a few more yards away, in the other lane, was _him_, thrown clear of the cruiser at the last second. He was lying face down in the pavement. He slowly reached out with one hand and felt around among the debris scattered around him. After a moment, he found what he was looking for: his aviators, miraculously barely scratched. He slowly put them back on his face, then got to his knees with little pain. He brushed himself off lightly, then turned to the side and observed the wreckage nearby. Obviously, the stolen police cruiser was worthless. He limped over to the Uzi, bent down, and picked it up. One glance was enough to tell anyone that it was damaged beyond repair as well. He tossed the weapon aside.

He slowly looked around, scanning his immediate surroundings for a new vehicle. His eyes rested on the silver semi; the nearest vehicle still in good condition…

Inside the cab of said truck, the driver was still leaning forward from the impact, head on the dashboard.

"Ah!" He cried in pain as he attempted to sit up. He reached up to his forehead and stroked his fingers across it once. Already, his fingers were covered in the warm, sticky blood.

"Damn it!" He cursed as he leaned down to fumble with his seatbelt with bloody fingers. He was unaware of the limping police officer slowly approaching him from the driver's side…

The seatbelt buckle clicked, and the buckle flew from its place. The driver grabbed it and threw it behind him, turning to the door.

It was already open. A gargantuan police officer stood there.

"Whoa! Officer, what the hell's going on around here?"

The man did not respond, but only grabbed the truck driver's shoulder. Hard.

"Ah! What the hell are ya-WAUGH!"

The driver had no time to react as his large frame was thrown from the cab. He impacted onto the pavement with a crack as his shoulder gave in, and he rolled along. He clutched at his wound, screaming in pain.

"AUGH! What the hell is your problem, man?" He called. When there was no answer, he turned towards the cab, only to see the officer already inside, door closed, and hand on the wheel.

"Oh, no! Don't even think about it!" The goat cried as he leapt up onto the step outside the door. He grabbed the handle and attempted to jerk it open, only to find out that the officer had locked it. "Hey! You open this door right now, ya hear me? I don't care if you're a cop; this is a company truck! You do any damage to it, and my boss'll have your badge, you jerk! You hear me! Open this d-."

The roaring of the engine and the rumbling of the truck starting to move immediately made the driver have second thoughts. He jumped backwards off the step and backed off, watching in pure astonishment as the cop drove off in his truck. He rammed the overturned cab of the other semi, brushing it aside and scraping it along the pavement, as well as the burning wreckage of the smaller car, as he sped off.

"My boss won't like this." The driver muttered miserably as the truck sped away.

…

At the loud sound of scraping, groaning metal, Sly raised his head once more. His three friends, all still in the van, stared in horror, eyes wide and jaws dropped. Sly more or less had the same reaction of disbelief and terror at what he saw: The massive semi-truck, the one that had been stopped by the overturned one, scraping right past the overturned one and speeding right towards them.

"Sly…" Bentley started to call.

Almost instantly, Sly started screaming at the top of his lungs. He forced himself to his feet and nearly stumbled the entire way back to the van, jumping in and pulling the doors shut behind him.

"Murray! Slam it!"

Murray instantly put the van back in drive and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The tires screeched, kicking up steam and leaving a thick black trail on the asphalt. Not too far behind, the truck followed. All of the entire rows of cars ahead of them had long since passed on, and no more were coming through. They were the only two vehicles on the entire freeway now.

"Come on, Murray, get us away from him!"

"I'm trying! I didn't think a truck that big could go so fast!"

"Well, we're not gonna have much cover for us now that all of the traffic is severed." Bentley reminded them.

"Even if we did, that freak clearly doesn't care who he kills in the process. He just wants us dead!"

"But _why_?" Penelope asked desperately.

Before anyone could answer, Murray yelled, "Hang on, everyone! I'm gonna take us off the freeway!"

"Are you crazy?" Bentley asked.

"It'll be better, trust me! There's less lighting in the back roads, so maybe we have a better chance of losing him! Now hang on, the exit's coming up!"

Bentley and Penelope clung desperately to each other, and Sly jumped into the passenger seat, securing his seatbelt once more as Murray turned hard, taking them down and off the freeway at last. They could hear the groaning of brakes as the truck turned to follow them. Sly turned back and watched through the rear windows as the headlights, distancing themselves more from the lamplights of the freeway, became more like a giant pair of eyes following them in the darkness. Sly slowly turned back around and leaned back in his seat, still in complete disbelief.

"Sly, shouldn't you try to get a few more shots off at him or something?"

"Are you kidding? I've got only one clip left for the time being. And in the dark? At the distance between us? And while riding on these rougher roads, making it nearly impossible to get decent aim? I don't think so. For now, the darkness is our best weapon."

They made it to the bottom of the off-ramp and swerved around another corner, passing a small gas station. The truck's brakes hissed as it slowed down to get a steady turn before picking up speed once again.

Murray was constantly glancing between the dark road ahead of him and the rearview mirror, at the truck that actually seemed to be gaining on them.

Just then, a thought crossed his mind. He glanced down at the small clock on the dashboard.

_6:42_

"I've got an idea!" Murray declared. "Hang on…again!"

He then spun the wheel around as hard as he could, turning it all the way around and sending the van spinning around and kicking up dirt. Just as they faced the opposite direction, the massive headlights dashed by, inches from their side. As the body of the truck, and the trailer it was pulling passed by, Sly caught one word on the side of it, large and clear. It made his blood go cold upon seeing it.

Murray slammed the gas again, and they took off.

"Murray…I hope you know what you're doing!" Bentley called.

"Don't worry! I know this area well…and its daily routines!"

As Sly looked back, he saw the stopped truck already in the lengthy process of turning around to face them, buying them plenty more time.

"Oh, thank God. That should buy us some time."

When they reached the four-way intersection that was near the base of the off-ramp from earlier, Murray did the unthinkable: He stopped.

"Murray! What are you doing? Don't stop!" As Bentley yelled this, he glanced out the rear window nervously, focusing on the pair of headlights in the distance behind them.

Murray glanced down at the clock again: _6:43_.

"He's gaining on us! Murray, we're losing precious time!" Bentley yelled up.

"Murray, go! What are you waiting for?" Sly added.

"Trust me; we need him right behind us."

The headlights drew closer, closing the distance gap fast.

"MURRAY!" All three of them shouted simultaneously.

Murray, with a grin, instantly took off and turned the van to the right, heading past the gas station once more. As the truck turned to follow them, its right side jumped up onto the curb, passing dangerously close to the gas station, but passing on with no incident.

"Murray, I hope you know what you're doing. You usually don't."

"Don't worry, Sly. I've lived here for years. I know the routines. You see the time?"

Sly glanced at the small clock's readout. "6:43?"

"Every day, at about 6:45, a train comes into town, passing by this nearby intersection coming up. It's off the main road, so hardly anyone really crosses it in the first place."

"What are you saying?"

"Just watch!"

As Murray sped up, he flipped a lever behind the wheel and turned on the high beams. The much brighter lights instantly illuminated much more of the road ahead of them. As they advanced, and as the clock struck another minute, they could see something faintly in the distance ahead: Two tall, metal apparatuses, both exactly alike…

The clock moved to _6:45_.

Almost perfectly, it was at that moment when the four pairs of eyes glued to the dark road up ahead could see two pairs of red lights start to flash on the railroad crossing guard towers.

"Now see? What'd I tell ya?"

"Nice going, Murray! This could work!"

"I've just got to get it right…"

Murray glanced into the rearview mirror, and watched the truck gaining closely behind them. After a moment, it instantly picked up speed, obviously after the driver saw the same thing that they saw.

"OK, he sees the lights! Hang on, I'm gonna gun it!"

Murray pressed his foot down as hard as he could, the pedal now lying flat on the carpeted floor of the van. The van was picking up speed, and as the lights ahead continued flashing, two huge bars started to come down.

"See, the thing about this crossing is that there's huge gaps in between the rails and the road, which creates a huge bump. So everybody hang on, and tight!"

As they approached, the bars drew down lower and lower. They heard a single, long, loud honk behind them. The headlights drew closer. The bars were halfway down.

When Sly glanced off to the right, he could see three bright lights, arranged in a triangle with two on bottom and one on top, approaching from the darkness at an unbelievable rate. He glanced back at the crossing arms, still dropping.

"Murray…"

"HANG ON!"

They reached the crossing. As Murray warned, the van jumped at least a foot in the air from the bump, causing all loose objects to fly briefly. As they crossed, they could hear the loud screeching of metal as the bars scraped the top of the van. Then, a much louder, deeper sound. The blast came from the immediate right, and resounded for seconds after it stopped.

Then, they were on the other side.

"Yes!" Murray cheered, pumping a fist in the air.

"Way to go, Murray!" Bentley cheered.

"Alright!" Penelope agreed.

Sly glanced back, watching the large headlights suddenly start to grow more distant. Almost instantly, he heard the choking sound, and the screeching as the truck slammed on its brakes, skidding dirt and dust in front of the headlights. The pair of eyes started slowing down, attempting to stop before the crossing. But it was too late.

The massive hood of the vehicle barreled through, smashing through the first bar. There was a massive clunk and a thump as it hit the bumps on the tracks. The cab was almost jolted to a stop, the lights just behind the second bar.

Then, the lights were still. They didn't move at all, except growing smaller as the van continued on.

"Yes! Murray, he's stopped! And he's right on the tracks, too! You were right all along!"

"But that's not all! See, I figured that if we made it and he was on the wrong side of the tracks by the time the train came in, he'd try to stop. But he'd be too close, and end up going onto the tracks anyway. Well, if he did hit the crossing, while trying to slam his brakes as hard as he did, the bump of hitting the tracks and the impact of crashing through the crossing arm combined would cause his engine to stall. So he's not going anywhere for a long time. See? I can come up with a good plan, too."

"You sure can, buddy. But I don't think we want to be around when that train hits."

"What? Why?"

"When he passed by us when you spun around back there, I saw a word on the side of the trailer: Chevron."

Murray's eyes widened. "You mean…"

"Yep. And I can't count on one hand how many times the word 'Flammable' was on there, too."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's get the heck out of-WAUGH!"

Bentley was thrown back as Murray hit the gas again, and the van took off once more. Sly turned and looked back one last time, watching as the massive lights off the road drew closer to the two trapped lights on the crossing…

They rounded up over a small hill, the railroad crossing behind them falling out of sight, and turned on an off-road, a single sign indicating that they were heading back towards downtown.

As they continued on, they heard one last sound: The blast of the train's horn, followed by a much louder, stronger, deeper boom that silenced it. Even as far away as it was, they could all see the bright flash in the distance, and as Sly strained hard to see it, he could just barely see an orange tower rising into the dark night sky, turning to black smoke and blotting out some of the stars. He slowly turned around and sank into his seat, exhaling a long sigh of relief.

**To be continued…**


	11. Preparations

Preparations

_Los Angeles, California; Saturday, June 11, 9:56 P.M…_

The flames had long since burned the entire truck. The tanker itself was nothing but a skeleton, annihilated by the explosion. The cab, while having escaped the actual blast, was at the mercy of the flames; a black, crispy structure, weakened even further by the jets of water slamming into it in an attempt to extinguish the flames.

"Alright, Chief! Those flames are just about done!"

"Switch off the hoses, boys!"

With the turning of several valves, the powerful streams of water slowly weakened, losing their momentum, and becoming slight spurts that slowly arced lower and lower until there was hardly even a single drop emitting from the tips of the hose.

"Alright! Mitch and Hawkins, you two get in there and pull the stiff out!" Chief Warlocker called. "Go, go, go!"

"Alright, let's go!"

The two personnel named Mitch and Hawkins, with gloves, heavy coats, and surgical masks on, approached the charred remains of the cab. Mitch grabbed the door handle and started to pull it out, only for the entire door itself to come right off its hinges as soon as he did. They both jumped back as the flat piece of black metal clanged to their feet. After a few moments, Mitch swallowed and slowly looked up, raising his flashlight.

"Stay here, Hawk. I'm gonna take a look."

Mitch reached up with his right hand and grabbed the edge of the doorframe, placing one foot lightly on the step (which, surprisingly, still held), and slowly ascended. Once he was level, he braced himself for the sight of yet another burned skeleton sitting inside.

He raised his flashlight in his left hand and slowly aimed it inside. With another deep inhale, he flicked it on.

He almost dropped his torch and lost his grip on the doorframe.

"Mitch! Whadda you see?"

"What the hell? It's empty!"

_Meanwhile…_

"Come on, boys! Harder! Simmons, more power on hose number three!"

Even as the jets of water grew thicker and faster, the orange demon continued to consume the house that it was born in. The massive two-story house, with all of the furniture, photographs, trophies, and everything else, was engulfed and slowly transformed into black crisps.

The firefighters continued their valiant efforts to put out the blaze, but to no avail. Many civilians and residents of the whole street were standing around in their pajamas or robes, mouths agape in horror as the house burned. Four of these spectators were sitting inside a van, also staring at the burning house in mute shock. One of these four slowly hung his head, unable to bear the sight.

"Sorry, pal." Sly said as he turned to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "It was the chandelier. I had to use it as cover to get away from…"

"No, it's…I understand. I guess this is better for you guys; now I have no choice but to go with you. But all of my stuff…"

"I'm sorry. I'm sure we can buy a lot of replacements, get a new house for you once this is all over…"

"_If_ it's all over. Thanks, Sly. But I'm just as determined now as you are. Whoever sent that guy just caused my house to burn. Now I'm gonna burn them!"

"That's the spirit."

"Wait, how can you be sure someone sent him?" Penelope asked worriedly.

"It's only too obvious." Sly replied. "I mean, I've never seen that guy before. Not in any of our past heists, not in any of my jobs as an officer. And the way he was so…so…calm. So dull, so fearless…even when the chandelier fell. Even when we blew up his car right from under him. He was robotic. Almost demonic. One of the most well-trained assassins I've ever seen. But I know, without a shadow of doubt, that this is the assassin who killed Carmelita."

"So if he really is an assassin…" Penelope started.

"Then this isn't over. Not by a long shot. We're gonna have to get ready to see more hell. And the closer we get to the Volcano, the closer to hell we're gonna be."

"So, we need to prepare?" Murray asked.

"Yes, prepare!" Bentley eagerly agreed. "I like preparation. We need to prepare ourselves."

"Why don't we try to make the authorities aware of this?" Penelope suggested. "Sly still works for Interpol…"

"No." Sly interrupted. "They'd never assist me in this kind of mission. Old Barkley would call it a wild goose chase. Besides, they'd consider this just a personal vendetta; a mission for revenge. It's just like what Braskel said. No, we handle this ourselves. Barkley's given me only five days of leaves, starting today. We have to work as fast as we can, because I may never get another chance. And I can't just quit; that would raise suspicion, especially since they have been considering the possibility of me faking my amnesia. Once again, the answer is no. We need to prepare ourselves, we need to do this ourselves, and we _are_ going to do this ourselves. The question is, where can we get some more weapons? I'd prefer to do it in a legal manner for once."

"Wow, that's the first time I've ever heard _you_ say that, Sly." Bentley mused.

"Oh, I know just the guy." Murray replied.

With the slightest of grins, Murray put the van in reverse, backing out away from the crowd and turning aside. He stopped briefly, sparing one last glance at the burning wreckage of his house, before he sped off.

…

The two occupants of the small black car watched the house burn, all of the firemen racing to put out the fire, even though it was clear that the house was beyond saving.

"Nice work, Eugene." Glen muttered.

"Don't be blaming this on me." He shot back.

"You're kidding, right? You're the one who immediately held back when you saw that cop car start following them!"

"I told you, I thought it was an LA badge. And like I said, LA cops are tougher than you or me. If the LA department had something with them, I was willing to let them handle it. The last thing they'd want is some, to them, 'fancy-pants foreigners' suddenly barging in and telling them what to do. I had a partner who di that once before in Abbottabad, and it didn't turn out well, let me tell you. Had it not been for my communication skills and subtlety, they would've skinned him alive for the way he treated them."

"Well, it's so good that you fell back on past experiences. Clearly that guy was _not_ an LA cop. He wasn't even a cop at all! What the hell kind of an officer carries an _Uzi_ on him?"

"How was I supposed to know beforehand?"

"Still, you should have known to not let this one get away so easily. If we had stayed on them and followed them down that freeway, we could've easily helped whoever that was to stop them before it was too late! We could've prevented that pile-up and the railroad crossing crash! Now look! At least two, maybe even three, people dead! Two of them civilians! And now, with this house gone, there's nowhere for them to return to for us to keep an eye on them! They're long gone, it's nightfall, traffic's backed-up on the freeway, and they could be anywhere in Los Angeles by now!"

"Look, it's not a lost cause yet. If anything, this incident that destroyed the hippo's house has left them with no choice but to keep on the move."

"Alright, so how does that help? Do we just head to LAX or what?"

"Not LAX. Now that they have their old van involved, they can't take any kind of plane to wherever they're going."

"Well, then how do we find it?"

"Trust me, as long as we've got these…"

He reached into his pocket and whipped out his official Interpol badge.

"…we've got more resources and more access to special intelligence than they ever could."

"Um, OK."

"We'll track them by their license number. Easy as 1, 2, and 3."

"That won't seem too…suspicious to local authorities?"

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Let me handle the locals."

The black car turned around and headed down the street, leaving the burning home behind.

…

The short, chubby pig was just finishing polishing one of his revolvers and placing it back in the display case when he heard the buzzer go off. He slowly waddled over to the counter and took a quick peek at the monitor, depicting what the exterior camera over the front door was seeing. At the sight of his familiar hippo friend, he immediately smiled and pressed the red button.

After a low buzzing sound followed by a click, Murray grabbed the door handle and started to pull it open.

"Murray, are you sure about this?" Bentley asked.

"Of course! Trust me, Moe is a great guy. His store's off the beaten path, but his prices are a lot cheaper than the mega gun stores. Besides, his store's the only one with a range in it too! He sells every kind of gun you can imagine, even the ones that you didn't even know existed!"

As the four of them stepped into the small room, Murray pulled open a second door, leading them into the store. The pig was waiting for them.

"Murray, pal! How the hell have you been?"

"It's all good, Moe." After exchanging a firm handshake, Murray continued. "Moe, I wanna introduce you to some old friends of mine. This is Sly, a friend of mine ever since I was three."

"Howdy there. Moe Garcia, gunman extraordinaire."

"Hey." Sly was caught off-guard by the brutality of his handshake, but he knew that it was all in good nature.

"You in law enforcement?"

Sly stiffened up slightly. "Yes. How did you…?"

"That's a Smith & Wesson at your side. A model M&P 9, 9-millimeter with a 4.25 inch barrel."

Sly was blown away by the man's extreme gun expertise, and his hand casually drifted down to place itself near his holster. "Yes, yes it is."

"Those things are used in law enforcement only. You an LA badge?"

"No. Interpol, Paris branch."

"Oh, good. If you were an LA cop, I'd kick your hide outta here. LA cops are more crooked than Rob Zombie."

Sly tried to form a smile at the apparent joke. "Heh, yeah. OK…"

"And this is Bentley and his girlfriend Penelope. I've also known Bentley since I was a squirt. Penelope, not so much."

"Howdy there. Moe Garcia, gunman extraordinaire."

Bentley and Penelope, trying as hard as they could to avoid any conversation with the pig, simply uttered a "Hello."

"So, what can I do for ya today, pal? Glock? Sig Sauer? Beretta?"

"Actually, I've decided that it's finally time to stop playing with guns and start paying for them."

Moe's eyes instantly widened, and his grin fell away with his jaw in shock. "You're kidding? After all these years, you're finally gonna buy one? Well, I must be the Emperor of China or something!"

Murray quickly turned to the others. "You see, I've been considering buying a gun for a long time, since I know so much about them. I've tried some out at his range, but I've never tried to buy one until now."

"Well, there's a first time for everything, ain't there?" Moe interjected. "Just name the model, the maker, the caliber, and she's yours!"

"What are the best ones you've got for self-defense?"

"Ah! Right this way, please. Hey, Larry!"

Farther down, at the opposite wall, a young employee stood readjusting some boxes of bullets. He straightened up and turned towards Moe.

"Yeah, boss?"

"I need you to keep an eye on the counter real quick; a friend of mine here wants to buy something."

"Yes, boss."

"Now, this way, if ya'll please."

The four friends quickly followed Moe through the store, past racks of various items: Holsters, magazines, goggles, scopes, carrying bags, and so on. Finally, they were at the back wall, which was completely lined with guns, guns, and more guns. Handguns, shotguns, rifles, machine guns. The wall actually seemed to go on forever.

"So, you want something good, in addition to your police friend's SW, right?"

"Sure. But we want to keep it light. You know, not too much."

"Ah. How many do you want?"

"No more than two."

"Alright. Well, here's one. It's a Ruger .22 automatic rifle." Moe grabbed the rifle off of its hook and held it out to show them. It was a fine, long rifle with polished wood and a sleek silver barrel. "It can be loaded with these special clips that can hold ten bullets at a time. Takes a long time to reload, but at least it's worth it once you start firing. Once a clip's empty, you press the button on the underside of the gun to drop it and put a new one in. The bullets it fires are .38 specials. Small little buggers, but at least they're pretty effective. Especially for long-range firing. Like I said, it's automatic, so you don't have to constantly be cocking and reloading it. Also, because of that, you can fire the bullets consecutively as fast as you can, with no pauses in between shots. It has practically zero recoil, and the sights lining the barrel make it pretty easy to aim. It's ideal for what you're looking for; fast, light-weight, and effective. Again, the only con is that it takes a long time to reload each clip, and the barrel can get pretty hot after firing too much."

Moe handed the rifle to Murray, who took a closer look at it.

"After putting in the clip, you pull that switch on the side of the chamber back once to put the first bullet in place. After that, the rest is automatic."

"Sounds good. I'll take it."

"Good. Here's…five clips. Remember, each one holds ten, so that right there is fifty bullets."

"Awesome. So that's one down. What's next?"

"Hmm…Well, if you're already good with a handgun and rifle…then the only logical choice would be a shotgun. Come on down here."

Moe led them a little further down the wall, where the pistols and rifles slowly transitioned into the massive heavy-duty shotguns.

"These are the baddest of the bad. Shotguns are kings of the hill in the gun world, let me tell ya. Strong, heavy, large and in charge. This one here oughta be good."

Moe reached up and grabbed a large shotgun, also covered in polished wood, but significantly darker and with many shapes and designs carved into it. The barrel was stainless steel.

"A Browning Maxus Hunter with a 28-inch barrel. This bad boy looks good and shoots good. Definitely a brute, and what you're looking for, my friend. It's automatic. And as for the recoil…well, let's just say that out of the four of ya, you're the only one who should actually shoot this thing, Murray."

"I believe it." Murray admitted as he took the shotgun, handing the rifle and its five clips to Sly.

"So, will that be all, pal?"

"I think so."

"Alright. Front and center, then."

When they were at the counter, Murray pulled out his wallet and started pulling a couple of hundreds out.

"I thought that you can't just buy the guns right off the counter like this. Isn't there some kind of lengthy procedure or something?" Bentley added.

"Yeah, but in my opinion, that's just the system's way of slowing people down. I sell these babies my own way."

"I told you his store was off the beaten path." Murray added with a grin and wink back at Moe.

"Couldn't have said it better myself. So, I'm curious, pal; what made you choose to buy them now?"

"Uh…well, I guess it finally just clicked, you know? Nothing special happened, I just finally decided on it."

"So you could say that ya finally saw the light, huh?"

"Guess so."

Then, just as they started to head out, a sound caught their attention: The small television set hanging up on the wall, near the ceiling.

"_Police have been unable to confirm who it was that was being pursued in this incident, nor for what crime they were being pursued for."_ The anchor's voice droned on.

"Oh, yeah. Did you guys hear about that major pile-up over on the freeway? Four cars, two of 'em big rigs, and two people dead."

A collective lump formed in everyone else's throat at the mention. Murray was the only one who glanced at the TV screen for a moment. The images were live, streaming from a helicopter that was now hovering above the pile-up on the freeway, the overturned semi, the upside-down police car, and the smoldering Tacoma, all still in place. The spotlight was flickering from wreck to wreck, trying to illuminate them all in the dark.

Murray recovered and simply replied, "Yep. Terrible, huh?"

"You said it. Traffic's backed up for miles out there." He shook his head. "Witnesses were saying that a cop was chasing someone, and the jerkoffs he was after were shooting back at him."

The lumps grew larger.

"Didn't you say that you don't like LA cops?"

"Well, I wouldn't want them dead. Especially when they're just doing their job. I hope they catch up to those mothers, and soon."

"OK, well, thanks for everything, Moe."

The four of them started to leave the store.

"You bet. Where ya headed? Hunting?"

Murray stopped briefly before answering.

"Uh, yeah." He walked off with the others.

"Nice. Take care, pal."

"You too."

…

The four of them exited the store, the raccoon holding the rifle and the hippo holding a shotgun. As the last of them, the mouse, left, she pushed the door open with one final shove, sending it flinging wide open. They all turned to the left and started heading towards their van, turning their backs to him. He slowly and silently rose from the bushes, watching them as they walked towards the vehicle. He glanced at the door as it slowly closed, and instantly went for it, his footsteps non-existent as he slithered up to the door and barely managed to put his fingers in between the door and the frame, stopping it just in the nick of time. He looked back at his targets, barely ten feet away, as they were just reaching the van. The raccoon was heading for the passenger seat, and started to turn as he headed for the door. He quickly slipped into the store, carefully pulling the door shut behind him and ducking down, just behind the wall and fairly well-hidden by all of the bars lining the walls and windows. He lifted his head up slightly and watched as the raccoon spared a brief glance back at the door.

A long pause.

The raccoon then looked back down at the door handle as he pulled it open and climbed in. He and the hippo placed their guns on the floor at the former's feet, while the other two climbed in through the back door. He kept his eyes trained firmly on them as the van started up, backed out of the parking space, then pulled forward through the small, empty parking lot, out onto the lonely road that ran alongside the store, and drove off. They were gone.

He slowly stood up and turned towards the inner door, pulling it open silently and stepping in. He glanced over at the far wall, where a squirrel was rearranging several of the firearms hanging on the wall. He glanced forward, at the other far wall that was lined with nothing but firearms. A short, stout pig was standing before this wall, finishing off polishing a small pistol and placing it back. He slowly advanced.

As Moe stood back and looked over his wall of guns, he grinned to himself. "You done good, Moe. You done-HUP!"

His sentence was instantly cut short when he felt a tremendous force, unbelievably firm, heavy, and strong, take hold of him in two places. The first slammed against the back of his neck, and the other took hold of his chin. He glanced down just in time to see the huge gloved hand that had taken hold of his head before there was a sudden twist. A sharp crack was the last thing he heard, and a splitting, searing pain was the last thing he ever felt.

He dropped the pig's lifeless body, surprised at how easily his neck was broken. However, he was aware that the snap was too loud, as was the thump when his body hit the floor. He tensed up, frozen perfectly, and waited. Then he heard a voice say, "Moe? What was that? Are you alright?"

Almost instantly, he swung around. He could hear light footsteps from around the corner, and knew that he had to hide. He glanced around, and found that his surroundings were perfect. A jungle of racks, shelves, and…

He advanced towards the largest safe that he saw; an eight-and-a-half foot tall black safe with a nine-digit keypad and a golden knob. The door was already open just a crack. He slipped inside, lucky that it was just large enough to fit his frame into, and pulled the door back to just a crack, letting in a thin line of light.

The footsteps were muffled now, but grew louder. After a long moment, the light vanished for a split second as the person passed right by the safe, footsteps at their loudest, then growing more distant. He counted to three, then slowly pushed open the safe door and stepped out, instantly turning towards the squirrel and advancing swiftly and silently.

Larry rounded a rotating stack of camouflage jackets, and was instantly confronted with a horrible sight: His boss, Moe, lying dead on the floor. There was no blood at all, but he knew, from the paleness of his skin and the motionless of his entire body, that he was dead.

"M…Mo…! Oh…wha…ho…" He couldn't find himself to even gather a whole word to utter in pure shock and terror. Then, he suddenly felt something behind him. His nonstop video game-playing over the last 26 years of his life had given him extreme reflexes, and he knew full well that something was behind him. Rather than turn to face the thing behind him, he instead chose to bolt. With incredible speed, he tore ahead just as felt the rush of air as something swung behind him. He bounded over Moe's body and tore around another corner, making a break for the door.

But then, suddenly, he felt it. A vice-like grip instantly took hold of him, swiping him right up off his feet and into the air. He instantly started to scream, but then felt a massive force, like the anchor chain of the _Titanic_, wrap around his neck and tighten. A single gasp was all that escaped. He tried to take even a single breath, but couldn't find any. His neck was being crushed even more, making the pain more unbearable than the suffocation. The thing around his neck tightened, and his vision grew blurry. He finally gave up on trying to breathe, and his head slowly hung limply to one side. His vision then became fully black, and he never took a breath again.

…

He felt the heartbeat cease, and let the puny squirrel's body drop to the floor with another thump. He slowly looked around, making sure that there was no one else here, and then slowly turned back around to the back wall, lined with guns.

He approached it, stepping over the other body without even looking, and inspected his possibilities. He stopped on two in particular, coincidentally side-by-side. He picked up the first one: A Springfield M1A Socom II .308, with an 18-inch barrel. The other one, longer and thinner than the other, was a Mossberg 12 GA with a 28-inch barrel. Both were large and powerful; just like he was. He slung them over each of his shoulders and started to turn around. But something on the periphery caught his attention. He turned back, and laid his eyes on yet another Uzi 9 millimeter. He couldn't resist. He snatched it off the wall as well. He then approached the counter, passing through the small swing door, lightly brushing the second body with it as he pulled it open, and then started sorting through the mountains of ammunition boxes behind the counter. He found a large, empty cardboard box that was approximately four feet long and a foot high, and started filling it with boxes upon boxes of shotgun bullets and magazines for the Uzi. When he had filled it to capacity, he closed the flaps to seal it and placed the Uzi on top of it, holding it firmly in front of him as he backed out the swing door and headed for the main door.

He was inwardly cursing himself. When he had spied through one of the windows of the house, he was briefly stunned at the presence of not just one, but _all four_ of his remaining targets, inside the house. It was a pleasant surprise that he was not about to pass up. He had retreated to the car and retrieved the Uzi, knowing now that the Colt pistol would not be effective enough in eliminating all four at once. But now, looking back, he knew he had been too sloppy; bursting in, gun blazing like he was some kind of Marine or Secret Service agent. He would never let that kind of instinct get the better of him again.

As he exited the store, the only sound left in the whole building was the continuing television report:

"_But the story doesn't end there. One eyewitness, a truck driver named Gerald Herron, claims that his semi-truck was also involved in this pile-up, but was hijacked from him by a police officer, apparently the same one who was driving the overturned cruiser. He described the man as, quote, 'built like a tank,' and didn't say a word as he simply grabbed Gerald, and threw him out of the cab. The truck's charred remains were eventually found, stuck on a railroad crossing after apparently being hit by a train. And that's not the end of the strange twists and turns of this incident. Upon further investigation, officers discovered, inside the trunk of the overturned cruiser, a _body_: He was identified as the police officer who was in charge of that particular cruiser. He was wearing only his undergarments, implying that someone stole his uniform to impersonate a police officer. The Los Angeles Police Department has not yet commented on this incident, nor have they released the identity of the officer or the two civilian victims in this tragedy."_

Almost instantly as he headed out and started to walk into the parking lot, a red Mustang, its black convertible roof down, pulled up, loud rap metal music blaring, and swung right into the parking space that he was standing in. The tires screeched as the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the man standing in his space.

As soon as he stopped, put the car in park, kicked open the door, and stepped out, he unleashed a tirade.

"Yo, foo! What the hell you think you doing in my space, man? Get the hell out! I always park here! Move it! What, are you blind? Deaf? Both? Are you Helen Keller? Move the hell over! Get going! Scram! Whoa, what's with all the guns, foo? You the Terminator or something? Well, I don't care if you're Arnold Swashingheimen himself, move! Go! Step aside!"

Among all of the insults, he remained absolutely still. He suppressed the desire to end the pitiful man's life, and waited until he made the first move.

"Hey, man! This is my space! I always park here! I come here every day, and this is my space! Right in front of the door, where I like it! Now move, foo!"

He slowly turned his head to the side, glancing at the road beside them. Not a single car passed by, nor was there even the faintest sound of an engine in the distance. Eventually, his insulter followed his gaze and got the same idea. He straightened out his leather jacket and rolled his head once, cracking his neck.

"Yeah that's right, man!" The bulldog continued. "There ain't nobody around here! It's just me! I'm always the only one in the area at this time, every Thursday. So there ain't no witnesses."

He cracked his knuckles as he slowly approached him.

"So, if you ain't gonna move you fat ass right now, I'm gonna have to bust you fat ass. I can promise you right now…" He whipped out a small knife handle from his jacket pocket; a fine black material with a skull carved into it, and flicked the blade out. "…that if you don't move in three and a half seconds, there's gonna be blood all over this pavement."

He dropped the massive box, which slammed onto the pavement with a _thud!_ The Uzi on top bounced lightly, but remained on top of it. He remained absolutely still, waiting for the right moment.

"OK, it's been long enough. You asked for it!" He immediately swung back and started to thrust the knife forward, only for a powerful gloved hand to snatch his wrist before he could progress any further, and one twisting of his arm instantly drew a sickening crack from his assailant's arm.

"AH! Oh, sweet Al Capone, it hurts!" He started screaming in pain, screaming a most high-pitched, unmanly scream. He dropped the blade instantly as he clutched his broken arm, blood now leaking out of his sleeve and staining the leather. He doubled over, still issuing his high-pitched scream.

He looked down at the blade the punk had dropped. He slowly bent down and swiped it up. The weakened man looked up, breathing heavily, just in time to see the gloved hand swiftly take hold of him by the neck and lift him right off the ground. He brought his good arm up to make a futile attempt to put even the slightest bit of space between his neck and the man's hand. But he felt none, and was suddenly flung around through the air and slammed up against the wall behind him. He could hear the glass in between the bars crack against the force, followed by the feeling of many sharp prickles in his back as shards of glass dug into him, piercing through the leather and into his skin. He looked down and saw the stranger's other hand was now clutching the knife; _his_ knife. He instantly went on the defensive and desperately wanted nothing more than to plead for his life. But he had no breath to do so.

And then, in one quick movement, the knife was plunged through his throat, impaling straight through and digging into the wall behind him. A grunt was all that emerged, and he slowly began to lose consciousness as the warmth started dripping down his torso, along his leather jacket and undershirt. His wounded arm hung limply at his side, still at an odd, bent angle. Strangely, in his last moments, he felt an odd numbness and absolutely no pain.

He stared silently at the man he had just humiliated and mutilated. He knew that he was a pompous fool who had absolutely no idea who he was up against. He felt like he had just taken candy away from a baby. But he felt absolutely no remorse whatsoever. He then slowly turned around towards the car that the punk had arrived in. He kneeled down to pick up the box he had dropped, with the Uzi still on top of it. He slowly approached the car, and saw that the keys were still in the ignition; the engine still running. He pulled the door open and entered, slipping into the leopard print seats and placing the box and three firearms onto the passenger seat. He casually reached over and turned the loud music off, bringing sweet silence to the area. As he shifted it from park to reverse, he glanced back one last time at the body of the car's late driver, then pulled out of the parking space, then pulled forward out of the parking lot, turning right and down the small street, leaving the gun store and three dead bodies behind him as he headed for the LAX International Airport.

**To be continued…**


	12. Countdown

Countdown

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Saturday, June 11, 10:22 P.M.…_

Vlotho watched as Grant bowed slightly, then turned and headed back into the elevator without another sound. The doors closed, and the elevator slowly began its descent. Once it was gone, he angrily slammed a fist onto the desk. Had it not been for Vlotho's personal favoring of Grant, he would have likely killed him on the spot right then and there out of sheer anger.

Their man had failed. For the first time since he had been hired, he had failed. Cooper, the turtle, the hippo, and the mouse had managed to escape him in Los Angeles. And he had not been subtle. A massive automobile pile-up on a busy Los Angeles freeway, backing up all traffic for miles and resulting in two civilian deaths. Up until now, the man had managed to stay perfectly subtle. Perfectly under the radar. The deaths of three of his previous four targets were still yet to be discovered by authorities, while the first of those four had left them baffled and with no trail to follow. But this…this was an unprecedented failure.

He took a deep breath, inhaling slowly through his nose, then exhaled just as slowly through his mouth. Whatever the man did next, he could not stop. He was already out there, and determined to succeed. He was still a force to be reckoned with. He could probably make up for this monumental failure soon.

Even if he did, he could expect a couple million dollars trimmed from his pay for this.

Just then, there was a buzz from the speaker across the room. The badger lifted his head, looking at the control panel next to the closed elevator doors. He sighed, then slowly edged out of his chair and trotted across the room to the opposite wall. Pressing down on the little white button, he spoke into it.

"What is it?

"Sir, I am here to report some wonderful news. It concerns significant progress with our Project." The familiar voice of Colonel Grant replied.

"And what kind of 'significant progress' might that be?"

After a noticeable pause, the voice replied. "It's finished, sir."

…

Within a few minutes, Vlotho and Hans had come down the elevator, greeted Grant, and then marched swiftly through the factory, through the various other clustered buildings of the facility, until he finally stepped out into the fresh evening air, the sun just nearing the horizon. The three of them strode across the grass to the massive hangar; the one building in the entire facility that stood by itself. A large rectangular structure that rose nearly 400 feet into the air, was 800 feet wide, and 500 feet long. There was a long line of square windows lining the top of each wall, while the rest of the four sides of the building was a secure steel, spotless save for a few rust spots. The massive door stood before them, two sentries posted at each side of it in booths, assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

They approached the nearest sentry, who snapped to attention and saluted. The two officers returned the salute.

"Open the hangar door." Vlotho commanded.

"Yes, sir." The sentry replied.

By this time, the sentry on the other side noticed their arrival, and quickly exited his booth as well. The first sentry looked past the officers at the other sentry, and nodded. The second sentry returned the nod.

Both guards then moved to two separate small, red levers on each side of the door, just beside their guardhouses. They each took hold of their respective levers. The first sentry raised his other hand high into the air, holding up three fingers. He then quickly curled them down one at a time, pulling the red lever once his final finger went down. The second sentry pulled at the same time. The perfect synchronization of their pulls collected a brief, metallic click, followed by a much louder metal banging. Then a long, slow creaking could be heard.

The three men stood silent as the massive door slowly lifted open, inching higher and higher into its frame. The darkness of the interior made it practically impossible to see inside, but only because it was so much brighter outside. As the door rose higher, more light was let in, and the two pairs of eyes adjusted, the interior becoming much clearer.

Inside the massive building, the chamber was a beehive of activity. Scientists – with their white lab coats, clipboards, and glasses – and workers – with their overalls and tools – were quickly striding back and forth. Several large pieces of machinery – giant welders, cranes, and drills, all on treads – were slowly being moved against the walls, away from the massive object in the center of the room.

It was suspended in mid-air by two different apparatuses: Beneath it were multiple tall, cylindrical, steel pillars lifting up from the ground, planting into its underside. Above it were dozens of steel cables, strung from various places on top of it to secure hinges and rings in the walls, and even in the ceiling high above it. Its central body was about 50 feet across, thus leaving each wing approximately 125 feet long. The head was 10 feet long and 60 feet across, and the tail feathers being 45 feet long and 50 feet across at the very end. Overall, it had a length of 300 feet from wingtip to wingtip and 100 feet from the tip of the beak to the tip of the tail feathers: larger than any typical jumbo jet or airliner. Its sleek, silver body gleamed under the unbelievably bright lights shining down on it from several angles, reflecting all over the room something majestic. And, above all, its two massive yellow eyes stared blankly ahead, unblinking, unmoving, as if dead. The eyebrows were slanted down on top of them, giving it an angry, solemn stare that would've turned Medusa into stone.

Vlotho allowed a grin to slowly spread on his face. Even with the final, finishing touches still yet to be applied, it was beautiful, strong, and deadly.

A single scientist quickly strode up to the two officers.

"Commander, sir! I am pleased to report that-."

"I'm well aware." Vlotho interrupted.

The scientist, briefly stunned, paused to press his glasses back against his face with a single finger, accompanies with a sniff. "Yes. Well, anyway…do you want us to start it up?"

"No. You should all be aware that, even if it is finished, it is not to be launched for 72 hours. It is now…"

Vlotho glanced at his watch. It was exactly 10:30 P.M. now.

"10:30. We must wait until the clock strikes the first second, of the 30th minute, of the 10th hour, on Wednesday, the 14th of June of the Year of Our Lord 2005. That shall be the moment when this magnificent creation shall rise."

"…Y-Yes sir." The scientist replied awkwardly.

"And we must also wait until we have confirmation of our number one enemy's death. He is the one person who knows of the design and basic structure of this project, and could defeat us if he got the chance."

"…Yes, sir."

"Whatever finishing touches need to be made, make them. And I want two complete scans of the entire superstructure from wingtip to wingtip, tail feather to beak, inside and out, up and down, left and right. I want 100% solid confirmation that it is done, with no flaws, and will be ready to go upon my command."

"Yes, sir."

"You are dismissed."

The scientist bowed quickly, then turned and scurried off towards a nearby group of similar scientists.

Vlotho turned to Grant. "I want security in and around this hangar to be quadrupled. No one gets in or out without my permission and mine alone. If anyone is caught touching or tampering it in any way without my permission, they are to be executed immediately and a complete inspection will be made once more."

"Yes, sir."

"It has taken us 15 years to build this. We cannot allow anything to happen to it now that it is finally finished."

"Yes, sir." Grant repeated.

"You are dismissed."

Grant bowed firmly, executed an about face, and headed off to relate Vlotho's commands to the sentries.

Vlotho, standing next to his deaf manservant in the middle of the hangar, slowly turned back towards the massive marvel of technology before him.

"Soon, Hans." He spoke softly. "Soon, this beautiful machine will rise to its full glory."

Vlotho took several steps closer to the massive machine. Hans followed, but remained several paces behind his master.

Speaking directly to the machine itself, Vlotho continued. "Soon, you shall fly again. Soon, the Second Clockwerk will reign supreme, more so than the first, and shall strike fear into the hearts of all who see it, all who hear its cry, and all who even hear its name."

Vlotho grinned once more, chuckling to himself.

"The end is near at last."

**To be continued…**


	13. The Chase

The Chase

_Russia, just outside of Aldan; Sunday, June 12, 1:53 P.M.…_

There was a light _click!_ The handle of the hose jolted slightly in its place, signifying that the tank was full. Murray grabbed it and squeezed on the handle, lifting it out of the hole and placing it back in its holster alongside the gas pump. Closing the lid on the side of the van, he turned around, his heel pivoting on the loose gravel, as he turned towards the small store adjacent to the gas pumps. As he paid the man at the counter for the gas, his friend slipped out behind him, unnoticed by the short goat as he walked right out with several items hidden in his trench coat. After the money and its change were exchanged, Murray nodded and headed back out the door towards the van.

As he slipped into the driver's seat and pulled the door closed, he glanced over at Sly in the passenger's seat. He reached into his coat and pulled out one of the items: A can of Red Bull.

"Nice!" Murray said as he took it casually out of Sly's hand.

"Eh, couldn't resist going back to the old tricks just for a little bit. Again, technically I'm on leave, not official business."

"Good to have you back, pal." Murray replied as he sped off. "Plus, having that badge of yours really helped us to get those guns past security without a problem. If only you could be a thief and have that badge at the same time…"

"If only." Sly echoed.

The van slowly pulled out away from the gas pumps, heading out onto the desolate mountain trail and entering a tunnel. There was a long, echoing roar as they sped through the small tunnel. They eventually emerged on the other side into the bright daylight once more.

Sly turned around to face the other two occupants of the van, sitting in the back.

"Any luck, Bentley?"

"The live satellite images aren't showing any signs of malfunction; they're working fine."

"So? What's the problem?" Sly's impatience was reflected in his voice.

"Well, see, when I try to zoom in on this particular area – where the Volcano itself is and the entire surrounding area – it shows just a gray cover. A virtual fog, if you will. It's a special kind of censor that's given off by a particular device that instantly clouds any satellite's view of a given area. So, when I try to get a close enough look at the area around the Volcano…it comes up blank. Just a plain, gray sheet."

"Sounds suspicious enough to me. When we're about three miles away from it, we'll stop in the woods surrounding it and do some reconnaissance. Clearly, something's there that somebody doesn't want anyone else to see."

"They're waiting for us." Sly muttered. "Well, we'll give them a surprise, alright."

"Now hold on, Sly. We can't just go charging in like a bunch of commandos. We have to have a strategy…"

And so, the van sped off down the empty, rugged mountain road, with a full tank of gas. The ensuing debate between Sly and Bentley kept the four other occupants of the van distracted from much of their surroundings, save for Murray, who had his eyes on the road and his ears on the conversation.

Thus, the four of them were completely unaware of the familiar blue aircraft slowly lifting off from its perch in a hollowed-out cave several dozen stories above the lone gas station, its single occupant observing them carefully through a pair of high-definition binoculars. It hovered lightly over the road, waiting for them to turn a massive corner before it immediately sped forward. The pilot used this brief pause to load up his Uzi before he took hold of the controls again and began pursuing them.

"Look, all I'm saying is that, while these three guns that we have _are_ powerful, they won't be nearly enough! What if they've got a whole army waiting inside? The most state-of-the-art weapons in the world? We have to assume that they're armed and ready for intruders."

"Perhaps they're ready for regular intruders…intruders bursting in with guns blazing. But not a subtle, sneaky attack."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we use a different strategy. Some rather unusual method of attacking. All after we do some good reconnaissance work first."

"I agree with that. We'll need to get a good visual on our enemy before we come up with a plan."

"At this rate, we'll be there in no time." Murray informed the others. "We're all alone on this road. No traffic, no accidents, no nothing."

"Um…I don't think we're completely alone." Penelope replied.

"What do you mean?" Murray asked.

All heads turned to Penelope, who was standing at the back of the van, peering through one of the windows in the rear door.

"There's some kind of helicopter back there…and if I'm not mistaken, I think it's following us."

Bentley wheeled back to join her and looked through the other window, while Sly leaned out the passenger-side window and looked as well.

Sure enough, there was a small, light blue helicopter hovering in the distance, gaining ground on them fast.

"How can you be sure that it's following us?" Murray asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"It's gaining fast." Bentley replied. "And I didn't notice it before. It's only just started following us."

"It could just be a tourist helicopter, or an army helicopter, or something…" Murray started to contradict.

However, Sly, who had already pulled out his bino-cu-com and was looking through it, zooming in on the rapidly-approaching craft.

Once he got a good look, his eyes widened and he slowly lowered the bino-cu-com.

"Uh…guys…? That's certainly not a tourist helicopter or an army helicopter."

"What do you mean?" Murray asked. Bentley also turned to Sly, while Penelope continued keeping an eye on it.

"I've seen that helicopter before. That same size…that same color…the large yellow star on the side; the logo of Interpol."

"Oh, no…" Bentley said as he first got the implication.

"Wait, you're joking, right?" Murray asked. "It couldn't be…"

"What is it?" Penelope asked.

"That's Carmelita's helicopter. Remember? It was never found after her death. It was stolen. And now here it is again."

"Oh, dear…"

"It has to be him! Sly, can you get a good look at the pilot?" Bentley quickly asked.

"I didn't need to. I know that it's him. Against all odds, it has to be. It's the man from LA." Sly's eyebrows furrowed, and he glared hard as he spit out the next words. "And the helicopter being in his possession just proves, once and for all, that he _is_ the man who killed Carmelita." His grip on the bino-cu-com tightened, and his knuckles were white.

"But he was in that truck when the train hit it! …Wasn't he?"

"We never did stay in the vicinity to watch, Murray. In retrospect, driving away long before the train hit probably wasn't the best idea…" Bentley reflected.

"Well, never mind that now." Sly shot back, cutting Bentley off. "That was before, this is now. We need to fight back. Murray, where are the guns?"

"In the back, underneath the big computer."

Sly unbuckled his seat belt and jumped over the seat into the back of the van. He ducked underneath the large console, and saw the two larger guns lined up underneath it.

"They're both locked, loaded, and ready to go, Sly. There's some more ammo in the glove compartment."

"Alright, I'll take the rifle and my own pistol. Murray, we might need that shotgun. And like Moe said, you're the only one who can shoot it."

"But…who'll drive? Bentley can't do it…"

"That leaves only one." Sly glanced at Penelope as he turned the Ruger's safety off.

"I…I don't know if I'm up to it…"

"Penelope, you're the only one who can do it. Would you rather be firing guns at the helicopter?"

"Oh, no. I'll drive."

"Atta girl." Murray encouraged. "Don't worry, it's easy. Just focus on the road, and let me and Sly handle the rest."

"Wait! What can I do?"

"Well…you still have your grapple-cam?" Sly asked.

"As always."

"Does it still have the turret attached?"

"As always." Bentley repeated.

"Toss it to me. I'll attach it to the roof of the van, and you can help us shoot at him."

Bentley pulled the small device out from a secret compartment in his wheelchair and threw it to Sly, who caught it. As he started to climb over the seat, he continued. "I'll put it under the satellite dish so it'll have some cover."

Bentley's eyes widened. "Whoa! Wait a minute! I don't want the dish damaged, do you hear me? That dish is-."

"Would you rather have the entire van shot up and destroyed?"

When Bentley closed his mouth and hung his head, Sly wordlessly leaned halfway out the window, stretching his arm up to securely attach the small device to the metal roof of the van, directly at the base of the massive radar dish, making sure that the turret was facing behind them towards their pursuer.

Just as Sly attached it and started to retreat back into the van, he could hear the sound of rapid-fire from a firearm. He threw himself back inside just as he heard the familiar sound of bullets ricocheting off of the metal roof of the van.

"Yep, he's after us, alright. Bentley, aim the turret and prepare to fire! Wait for my signal!"

By now, Murray and Penelope had managed to switch seats, with the former strapping herself into the driver's seat and taking the wheel.

Bentley wheeled up behind her, took her by the shoulder, and muttered, "Good thing that I know how to drive one of these things. Trust me; if I could learn how to do it all by myself, then you can, too."

Even amidst the dangerous situation, Penelope couldn't help but smile at this comment.

"Bentley! Let's go!"

Sly and Murray positioned themselves at the back of the van, while Bentley remained safer closer to the front, wedged between the massive computer console and the seats. He pressed a button on the left armrest of his chair, causing a thin metal appendage to instantly rise up from a hidden chamber, with his bino-cu-com attached to the end of it. At the same time, his keyboard deployed from the right armrest directly over his lap, and his hands moved into position as he placed his eyes against the viewfinder. He could now see what the grapple-cam was seeing, and carefully aimed the turret directly at the attacker. He could now see a faint orange blast on one side of the helicopter; the muzzle flash from the Uzi that the pilot was holding out the window.

"Ready?" Sly asked.

"Ready!" Murray confirmed.

"Ready!" Bentley repeated.

"OK, Bentley! Shoot at him with your grapple-cam first! The return fire should distract him long enough for me and Murray to open one of the doors and safely get some shots off on him too."

"Roger!"

Bentley aimed the turret once again after a pothole threw off the initial aim, took a deep breath, and pressed the fire button, holding it down. Shot after shot pelted the helicopter, striking the metal directly underneath the windshield. Just as Sly hoped, the orange flare vanished as the Uzi was retracted back into the cockpit.

"Clear!" Bentley yelled.

"OK! Open fire!"

Murray kicked open the rear right door and aimed his shotgun out of it. Sly leaned out from behind the still-closed door next to it with his rifle ready. Both started unloading bullets onto the helicopter, the loud sounds prompting both Bentley and Penelope to briefly cover their ears before the latter had to put her hands back on the wheel to recover from a nearby bend.

After Sly finished off his first ten-shot clip and Murray finished off six shots, both retreated behind the other door, while Murray closed the open one just as the Uzi gunfire started up again.

"Reload!" Sly commanded before he obeyed his own order, pulling out the second clip and locking it in, cocking the gun once.

"You know what? Moe was right. This thing _does_ have no recoil." Sly commented. "As a matter of fact…"

Sly then took the rifle in one hand, placing the butt of it against his shoulder and firmly grasping the trigger guard with his right hand while his left hand reached for the pistol in his holster. He pulled it out and flicked the revolving chamber open.

"Pistol's full." He flicked the chamber closed in the same manner, then turned to Murray.

"You ever heard the phrase 'Two heads are better than one'?"

"Yeah." Murray answered as he reloaded the Browning.

Sly cracked a smile. "Well, in this case, two _guns_ are better than one!"

"Hell, yeah!" Murray agreed, raising his own shotgun and cocking it dramatically. Then the rapid-fire stopped again. "Let's kick some ass!"

Murray kicked open the door, and Sly jumped into position. All three guns were trained on the helicopter, as was Bentley's grapple-cam.

"FIRE! Bentley, you too!"

At that moment, all four guns started unleashing on the helicopter once again. Murray's shotgun, Sly's rifle, Sly's pistol, and Bentley's grapple-cam. Four different weapons all unloading onto the same target. However, this time, that didn't stop the assailant. He stuck the Uzi out the window and fired down amidst the hail of bullets.

The sound of ricocheting bullets was clear and close, startling Sly into jumping back behind the closed door. Murray fired off two more shots before one bullet ricocheted on the inside wall of the van, inches from his head. He yelped and dove behind the closed door next to Sly. Bentley continued firing at the helicopter.

At that moment, Penelope yelled, "Hang on!" as she turned on a sharp bend, the long fall down the cliff wall directly in front of them right before she turned away. Sly and Murray slid briefly to the side as the van swerved hard, and Bentley wheeled backwards against the wall with a slight impact. Almost immediately, the rising wall of rock behind them covered the helicopter, briefly giving them a breath from the fight. Murray reached out and closed the door once again.

"Phew!" Bentley exclaimed. "We sure got him that time, didn't we?"

"Obviously, it's not gonna be enough to stop him." Sly replied grimly as he placed a third clip into his Ruger.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first of all, this guy survived being in a police car that had an explosion right under it, flipping it over, and sliding along a freeway upside-down. Second, he survived being in a big rig with a tank of gasoline that was hit by a train at a railroad crossing. Clearly, he's got as much durability as the Terminator. Second, that's an Interpol helicopter that's _made_ for situations like this. I speak from experience, on both sides of the law. That thing is built with reinforced bulletproof steel, and the windshield is also bulletproof Plexiglas."

"What? Why didn't you tell us that before?" Bentley inquired loudly. "We wasted all of those shots for nothing?"

"Not for nothing. His arm was sticking out the side window. We could've hit his hand and knocked the Uzi out. Just because it's reinforced doesn't mean he's invincible. We just need to get him through an opening in the window or windshield, such as his arm leaning out to shoot at us."

"OK, so how are we gonna do that?"

Before Sly, or anyone else, could respond, the helicopter suddenly appeared behind them again from around the corner.

"There he is! Time for round three! Murray!"

"Clear!"

Murray kicked open the door, and he and Sly began firing again, Sly with his two weapons and Murray with his one. The Uzi responded, and there was a simultaneous exchange of gunfire from both sides.

In the exchange, a single bullet from Sly's pistol finally grazed his arm, and he shook briefly before yanking his arm back into the cockpit. Without even setting the Uzi down, he looked at his arm, and realized that the bullet hadn't even come into contact with his skin, but had simply sliced a hole in his sleeve. Unfazed, he stuck the weapon back out the window and continued firing.

As Penelope rounded another turn, Bentley swiveled the grapple-cam around once more. Sly and Murray dove back behind the closed door, and the open door swung around, almost closing once, then opening back up again.

Eventually, the gunfire stopped once more as both sides started to reload.

"Guys! This isn't working!" Bentley declared. "It's useless! We can't hit him! He's just too far away!"

"It's just like LA." Sly mused. "We're gonna have to get him closer."

"Closer? Are you crazy?"

Sly looked up from placing in the fourth clip and glared at Bentley.

"You got any better suggestions? Penelope, slow down a bit. Just a bit, and stay focused on the road and the road only!"

"OK!"

The van's speed slowly started to drop, and the helicopter drew closer. Now they could more distinctly see the windshield, with multiple cracks in it from the bullets, and they could barely see the shape of the pilot inside through the cracked glass.

Sly finished locking and loading, as did Murray.

"Ready! Aim! Fire!"

Both started unloading again, this time close enough to see new cracks forming in the windshield, clearly starting to damage it and make visibility through it much more obscure.

The Uzi fired relentlessly, this time making waves over the back doors, and along the roof of the van. Several shots struck the satellite dish, sending a shower of sparks raining down off the roof of the van and onto the road behind it, also causing it to stop spinning.

Bentley noticed the destruction of the satellite both through the view of his grapple-cam and the shower of sparks, which also caused Murray and Sly to retreat.

"MY SATELLITE DISH! HE DESTROYED MY SATELLITE DISH!"

Another wave of gunfire assaulted the van, tearing up the dish even further and barely missing the grapple-cam.

"THAT'S IT!"

Bentley started unleashing a long, uninterrupted line of gunfire from the grapple-cam, not letting up in the slightest. The bullets bounced off of the metal and glass on the front of helicopter.

"Penelope!" Sly yelled across the van. "Slow it down further! We need to bring him closer!"

"Got it!"

The van's speed dropped even more, now down in between 50 and 55 mph.

"That's good!"

The helicopter was approaching fast, the Uzi still firing away.

"How much ammo does he freakin' have?" Murray asked in an obviously annoyed tone.

"He's got to run out eventually…and so do we." Sly realized.

He turned to Bentley. "Bentley, this isn't working! At this rate, we'll waste all of our ammo. I'm already on my last clip for the rifle."

"Well, what do we do? We know for a fact that he's not gonna give up!"

"I think I've already got an idea. Your grapple-cam!"

"What else can it do?"

"It's a grapple-cam, isn't it?"

"…You can't be serious."

"It's all we've got left. If it can get close enough before he notices, you can open up a good amount of point-blank shots on him!"

"But we'd have to get him really close to the van! And I mean _really_ close!"

"Done! Penelope, slow down even more! We want him right on our tail!"

As the speed dropped below 50, and Penelope rounded one sharp turn followed by another, Sly finished inserting his fifth and final clip.

"Alright Bentley, you ready?"

"This is the only grapple-cam I have left, so this needs to be just right! I won't have time for a second chance."

"That's fine. And if he notices you and starts shooting, use the self-destruct feature."

"OK."

Just then, the gunfire resumed. Murray had barely managed to close the door before the bullets peppered the back and roof of the van, tearing up the ruined satellite dish even further and also taking out one of the rear windows.

"My van can't take much more of this!" Murray yelled.

"Wait for it…"

Another wave. The satellite dish had holes all over, and the glass shards were scattered at Sly and Murray's feet.

"Wait for it…"

They rounded another bend, the helicopter still pursuing them, and the firing stopped.

"Bentley! Now!"

Bentley aimed the grapple-cam at the helicopter, now probably only 20 to 25 feet away from them. He could clearly see the pilot unloading the empty magazine and placing in the new one.

"Go for the landing strut! The landing strut!"

"I've got it, I've got it!"

_Easy…easy…_

"Bentley!"

"It's away!"

The hook shot out of the grapple-cam, whizzing out over the rushing road beneath them and eventually clasping firmly onto the thin metal strut beneath the helicopter. Bentley pressed the second button, and the grapple-cam instantly started to pull itself along the rope, instantly detaching from the van and flying straight up to the helicopter before landing securely on the strut.

Bentley paused, listened over the grapple-cam's microphone. He could faintly hear the clicking of the magazine being inserted into the Uzi. Then, suddenly, another burst of gunfire, now sounding both in real life and over the microphone. This caused Bentley to briefly recoil from the blasting volume. But at the same time, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"OK, Sly! It's attached! He's firing, but not at it. So hasn't seen it yet!" Bentley reported as Sly and Murray shot back at him once again. "Do you want me to start shooting at him now, while he's close, vulnerable, and distracted?"

Sly, after finishing his fifth clip and retreating behind the door, looked back at Bentley to respond. He started to open his mouth, then stopped.

As Sly turned back to Bentley, he happened to glance past Bentley, over the seat, past Penelope, and through the windshield. Something ahead in the road caught his eye.

A tunnel.

Sly's eyes widened, and the light bulb went off in his head.

"Hang on, Bentley. Don't fire yet." Sly stood up, placing the rifle down on the floor of the van and replacing his pistol to his holster.

"What? Why?"

"I think I've got an idea." Sly raced back up to the front and stopped just behind Penelope.

"Penelope, see that tunnel up there?"

"Yeah."

"When you go through it, floor it. Go as fast as you can."

"Um, OK…"

As Penelope turned to look at the road and quickly-approaching tunnel again, Sly reached over the seat and grabbed his bino-cu-com. Placing it to his eyes, he zoomed in on the distant tunnel. It was a long, dark stretch of tunnel with only one dim, orange light on the ceiling at the halfway mark. It was situated at the base of a massive wall of rock that stretched up higher than the windshield could allow. But just at the other end, he could barely make it out: A massive rock wall just beyond the end of the tunnel, where a sharp bend was.

"Oh, yeah. I've _definitely_ got an idea."

Sly eagerly dropped the bino-cu-com and turned around, heading back to Murray, who was still firing away with his shotgun.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Sly!" Bentley yelled as he ran past him.

"Trust me, I do."

He then put a hand on Murray's shoulder.

"Murray, get ready to retreat. We're heading into a tunnel. Let him shoot at us all he wants. He's got a spotlight that'll give him better visibility. We won't have much visibility in there, and his light could blind us from being able to fire clearly at him."

"Got it!"

"Once we enter the tunnel, he's sure to stop firing; either to reload or to switch on the spotlight. When he does, close that door and find a safe place to hide so that he can't shoot at you through the windows."

"Yeah, OK."

As Murray finished off the last few rounds, Sly headed back to the front seat and looked through the windshield. The tunnel was rapidly approaching, now only about 100 feet away.

"OK, Penelope; floor it!"

Penelope sped up, and the speed quickly increased from 45 up to 65 in a matter of seconds, and still rising. In an instant, they were in the tunnel, darkness surrounding them.

The firing from the helicopter ceased abruptly, and the helicopter lowered down, moving dangerously close to the road, and barely managing to fit through the opening of the tunnel. The chopping of the rotors echoed off the walls and reverberated through the four occupants of the van. But the gunfire had ceased.

"He's stopped! Murray, close the door!"

Murray reached out, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. He stepped back and crouched down just behind it, kneeling down on the metal floor and carefully placing his shotgun at his feet. He then remembered something. He quickly picked it up, flipped it over, and switched the safety on. He set it down again and moved back against the wall of the van.

"Alright. The light should come on right about…"

Just then, a massive beam of light shot out behind them, splitting clean in two as it beamed through the rear windows, illuminating some of the interior of the van. After a moment, the gunfire resumed.

"OK, he's firing! Penelope, there's a bend at the end of the tunnel. Slow down some and be ready for a _really_ sharp and last-minute turn!"

"You got it, Sly!"

"Bentley!" Sly turned to Bentley. "When I give the command, aim up through the opening and start shooting at him."

"Right."

"And, at one point while you're shooting, I'm gonna give you the command to activate the self-destruct. Regardless of whether or not he's seen you or starts firing back, I want you to do it."

"OK!"

The shooting continued relentlessly. For what seemed like an eternity, the four of them all sat there, ducking defensively as the stream of bullets consistently tore away at the van.

Then, there was a brief flash of orange from above as they raced under the single light.

"Alright, we're at the halfway point! Get ready!"

It was another long stretch of tunnel as they started the second half. Bentley had his eyes glued to the viewfinder of the grapple-cam, watching the Uzi fire away directly above his device. Murray had his eyes locked on one of the rear windows, at the helicopter behind them. Penelope and Sly were focused on the road ahead of them.

"Bentley, NOW!"

Without a word, Bentley started firing the grapple-cam again, catching him completely off-guard.

All that he heard was the sudden sound of bullets ricocheting off of metal dangerously close to him, some outside and some inside. But he saw no weapons aiming at him from the van he was pursuing. Instinctively, he yanked his arm back inside the cockpit, but in the process slammed the Uzi's barrel against the side of the helicopter. At the same instant, he felt the impact of a bullet on the handle of the Uzi, just below where his hand gripped it. Before he had time to reconsider his decision, he dropped the weapon and pulled his hand back inside. He grasped the wheel with his now-free hand, struggling to recover from the temporary distraction and stay away from the ceiling, floor, and walls of the tunnel. He swerved to the side briefly, but recovered. The gunfire continued. He looked to his left, outside the open window, and saw numerous flashes just beneath the opening. Somehow, they had attached a firearm to the side of his helicopter.

The darkness slowly started to give way as the opening approached.

"OK, he's retreated!" Bentley reported. "And he dropped the Uzi!"

"YES!" Murray cheered.

"OK, Bentley. Get ready to use the self-destruct now!"

The end of the tunnel loomed ahead, now barely 50 yards ahead.

"Wait for it…wait for it…"

The streaks of bullets continued just outside the cockpit. He looked to the right, where his two other weapons – the Springfield and the Mossberg – were laid across the passenger's seat. He grabbed the Springfield and cocked it, already full loaded. He stretched it out the window and aimed it down at the source of the bullets, preparing to fire.

Just then, the van emerged from the tunnel and into daylight once again.

"Bentley, blow it up now!"

Bentley released the firing button and held down the red self-destruct button. Over the viewfinder, the grapple-cam's POV started to flash red, and a light beeping sound could be heard. Then, suddenly, a long, thick black firearm emerged from the window. A shotgun. It then aimed down, barrel pointed directly at the grapple-cam.

Just then, the grapple-cam exploded. The helicopter had also just reached the end of the tunnel when the fairly large explosion appeared, completely engulfing the side of the helicopter and causing the stunned pilot to drop the shotgun as the blast caught him off-guard.

The helicopter emerged from the dark tunnel, and the pilot, still recovering from the blast, leaned hard to the right to get away from the force of the blast. In the process, he jerked the wheel to the side and also pulled back on it.

Sly, Bentley, and Murray all watched as the helicopter reared high up just as it exited the tunnel, lifting higher up into the air, and slightly leaning to one side. It made no effort to turn, and was now heading straight for the rock wall directly in front of them.

"Hang on!"

Penelope veered a hard left, sending the van skidding almost on two wheels, and leaving black skid marks on the road. Bentley and Sly were both thrown back against the right wall, while Murray was still firmly in place. Loose items, including the weapons, also slid along. Murray reached out to catch Sly's rifle before it could slam against the van's wall.

Penelope continued to accelerate until they were out of harm's way. She moved forward a little more before slowing down as she approached the turn. The van screeched to a stop in the middle of the road.

Almost instantly, Sly jumped up and threw open the rear doors, jumping out and looking up as the helicopter, further away behind them, still continued to head straight for the cliff face. Murray and Bentley jumped out after them, and Penelope quickly threw off her seatbelt and headed out the driver-side door. All four of them stared in mute shock as Sly's plan worked almost perfectly. The pilot was still noticeably recovering, and there was still a cloud of black smoke hovering around the helicopter. There were deep scorch marks in the side of the helicopter, and several pieces of metal peeling and hanging off.

The helicopter moved forward, heading straight for the rock wall.

It was almost as if it had been put into slow-motion. The helicopter's front end completely crushed as it slammed into the rock wall, the sound of twisting, bending metal and breaking glass as clear as day. The helicopter's rear end seemed to jolt up briefly, the tail rotors lifting up slightly higher as it tried to bend in on itself. The landing struts bent down and split away from the main body of the helicopter, falling down, bouncing off of the cliff edge once, then again, before clanging to the ground below. The rotating blades on top also seemed to bend down slightly. Then the blades finally caught the rock. There was a loud, almost painful screech of metal, accompanied by a shower of sparks and metal shards, as the blades rapidly impacted into the rock one after another, parts of them disintegrating from the impact, and breaking away from the chopper and flying out in all directions. There was a shower of sparks at the base of the blades, followed shortly after by a small explosion. The cockpit was now almost entirely completely crushed between the wall and the rest of the helicopter.

Then, just as half of the body was crushed and grinded against itself, there was a third explosion, much larger and more powerful than the first two combined. It started from inside and below the helicopter, instantly engulfing the entire body of the aircraft in a fiery blast. Pieces of metal and glass flew in all directions, and the body still remained pressed against the wall. The explosion shook the entire frame, and there was a second explosion a while after it, this one right at the tail of the helicopter, completely destroying the tail rotors and sending those blades flying as well. Large chunks of rock were still tumbling off the wall and breaking as they hit the ground below.

Just as the orange vanished and the helicopter was consumed in thick black smoke, there was a deep, loud groaning that could be heard, along with more cracking of rock. The tail of the aircraft started to dip down, bending towards the ground. The rest of the body followed, and it slowly started to pull away from the rock wall. After a brief pause where the smashed front end of it seemed to be hooked onto the cliff face, the helicopter finally broke away.

The four of them watched silently as the body started to tumble down, almost slowly, along the rock wall. Its tail was now pointing straight the ground, the front end up in the air. Then it continued to spin, now with the tail lifting up and pointing more towards the rising rock wall, and the front end now facing the direction of the tunnel that it had just emerged from. As it fell like this, the tail clipped a large, jutting rock. This impact not only caused the tip of the tail to break off, but also caused the helicopter to spin again, now with the front end facing down towards the ground. It was in this position that the smoldering, crippled, and crushed wreckage slammed hard into the road, the front end taking even more abuse as it slammed down with a deep crunching of already-crunched metal. It stood like that, standing straight up for a moment, before it slowly started to tip over, the rear end slamming down onto the ground as well, and the helicopter now lying perfectly upright on the ground, smoke still pouring from the interior.

Even after it settled down, pieces of debris and crumbling rock continued to fall, and the fire inside continued burning.

The four witnesses were mute, completely stunned by the spectacular sight.

Eventually, Sly was the first to move. He slowly began walking towards the wreckage. He could already feel the heat from the smoldering metal as he approached.

"Sly, wait!" Bentley called after him, quickly wheeling up behind him.

Sly continued walking, stopping several yards from the hot wreck. Breathing heavily and with one hand drifting cautiously to his holstered pistol, he did a thorough once-over of the entire wreck, glancing at every large piece of debris, and looking through all the holes in the body of the helicopter.

Suddenly, there was a loud clanging of metal to his left.

Sly whipped out the pistol, aimed, and fired twice.

The bullets ricocheted loudly off of the piece of metal that had fallen from the cliff face, which had landed slanted against the base of the cliff and was responsible for the noise.

Sly realized his mistake and slowly lowered the gun. He slowly craned his head up and looked up along the entire cliff wall. There were a few pieces of wreckage, some still burning, lodged in the rock, but no visible movement or sign of life.

He lowered his head and looked back at the helicopter. He focused on the cockpit, hoping to catch a glimpse of the burning body. But the flames and the smoke were too thick, and he couldn't see anything of importance.

"Sly!" Bentley called again.

Bentley's voice drowned out amidst the crackling of the flames and the soft roaring of the smoke. The additional clang of falling metal also helped. He looked around, slowly moving to the other side of the wreck. He was just next to the tail, about to get a good look at the right side, before he suddenly felt a glove grip his arm.

He spun around, and saw Bentley.

"Sly, it's over! OK? It's over. No one could've survived that! Look at those flames! And besides, we were all watching from the moment it came out of the tunnel. Did you see him jump out at all? Or any sign of him escaping or otherwise surviving?"

Sly slowly turned back, looking up at the cliff, then back down at the burning wreckage so close to him. After a long pause, as Bentley's hand moved away, Sly replaced the pistol to its holster with a sigh.

"You're right. Let's go." Sly muttered, slightly hanging his head as he turned and started back towards the van, where Murray and Penelope were waiting.

"Yes, let's."

"I'll take the wheel now, Penelope." Murray offered. "Oh, and nice job back there!"

"Oh, thanks." Penelope replied, half-nervous, about both the burning wreckage and the danger they had just narrowly escaped.

The four of them returned to the safety of the van, Murray sliding back into the driver's seat, and Sly into the passenger's seat. Penelope and Bentley returned to the back, with the former picking up all of the weapons scattered across the floor and placing them back safely underneath the computer console.

As the van sped off on the road, Sly's mind was a blank. The only thing he saw, as he stared out the window at the scenery passing by, was that image of the burning helicopter, and his inability to see inside the cockpit.

_Several hours later…_

The gray Jeep bounced along the road, turning around another bend and leaving the gas station behind.

"Есть что-нибудь по этому пути после этой АЗС?" Whitman asked the driver.

"Ничего." The pig replied curtly.

Whitman turned back to Braskel, sitting in the backseat.

"He says there's nothing else from the gas station onward."

"Nothing?" Braskel asked. "No town or hotel or anything?"

"Nope. It's just bare mountain road from here to…"

"Then my suspicions were correct." Braskel interrupted, leaning back in the seat with a content look on his face. "It truly was obvious the moment we found out that the boat's destination was Russia."

"Well, I guess that means it was worth getting seasick 12 times for." Whitman muttered, shuddering briefly in disgust. "But the Krak-Karov Volcano has been abandoned for 15 years. What could he possibly be looking for there?"

"I don't know. But we'll catch up to him there. We'll still remain at a distance, observing him from afar. It should be considerably easy. After all, that Volcano is surrounded on all sides by dense forest, and it's set in a crater. It's too perfect."

"Something about that old Volcano gave me the creeps, and good." Whitman replied. "They spent only about a week searching the place after the incident in 1990, then they all just cleared the hell out. And quite a few men didn't come back…"

"You know what it was. It was reported as an accident. One of their temporary gangways broke with all of those men on it, and they all fell into the lava."

"But my question is why was it abandoned so quickly? After only one accident?"

"Apparently they found nothing else good there except the Clockwerk parts. You know what the deal was: Anyone who tried to ask was slammed with all of that 'Confidential' crap. I mean, something as amazing as the Clockwerk coming out of there could've meant that there were other amazing weapons or something there. But that's all beside the point. The point is that Cooper and his old friends are heading there, and we're going to stop them. I have a strong feeling that the end of the road is near."

There was another jolt as it hit a pothole. The three occupants bounced briefly, and Whitman covered his mouth.

"Damn it, does he have to go so fast?" He muttered. "Getting seasick is bad enough, but this road is killing me, and his driving sure as hell isn't helping. Why did we have to hire such a bad driver?"

"I told you, our car wasn't strong enough to handle this old mountain road. A Jeep was the only available vehicle that was capable of heading up this road, and the driver came with it. I'd prefer paying a few bucks for a ride rather than shredding up our uninsured Interpol car's tires and breaking an axle or two."

"How could you even trust that Russian? Maybe he said that just to rip us off."

"Look, I did some quick research, and found that a good amount of vehicles have been torn up on this road because they weren't tough enough. Would you rather be slapped with the bill for our car being trashed?"

Whitman's silence was a good enough answer.

Just then, the Jeep entered a tunnel, and blackness surrounded them.

"You know, Glen, I think our trip here is like this tunnel. Yes, it's generally dark. But we've had a light or two in between."

As he said this, they passed under the single light.

"And on the other side, we finally reach our goal."

"Wait! What's that?" Whitman asked, pointing straight ahead.

Braskel's thoughts were interrupted, and he leaned forward to look between the seats at the road ahead.

Just barely visible, at the end of the tunnel, there was something in the road. Something large, black, and with slight flickers of orange.

"Is that what I think it is?" Whitman asked nervously.

As they drew closer, the fire and smoke was now unmistakable.

"It's burning, but fast. I think this was recent."

Then the Jeep emerged from the tunnel.

"Tell him to stop!" Braskel ordered.

"Стоп! Стоп!" Whitman repeated to the driver.

The Jeep slowly skidded to a halt just outside the tunnel, on the left side of the road. The three men looked at the burning wreckage. It was a twisted, smoldering lump of metal that was nearly unrecognizable, especially amidst the smoke and flames.

However, the long tail stretching out behind was unmistakable. Plus, although it was half-covered by smoke, half of the familiar, large yellow Interpol star was visible on the side, surrounded by the light-blue metal.

"Is that what I think it is?" Whitman asked nervously.

Braskel threw off his seatbelt and placed a hand on his holster.

"You two stay here." He commanded as he exited the Jeep.

Drawing his pistol, Braskel slowly approached the burning wreck.

Whitman and the driver watched as he cautiously approached, his pistol aimed at the wreck as he slowly and carefully walked around it.

…

He watched as the monkey exited the vehicle, drawing a pistol and carefully approaching the burning, twisted wreckage. His eyes moved back to the Jeep, where there were still two more occupants. One was a pig, sitting on the driver's side (which, in this particular vehicle, was on the right side). The other was a mouse, sitting on the passenger's side on the left.

He emerged from his hiding spot directly next to the exit of the tunnel and approached the vehicle.

…

Braskel swung around to the other side of the burning wreck, the heap now between him and the Jeep. He tried to look into the cockpit, but there was simply too much fire and debris for him to see anything clearly.

Just then, he stumbled briefly on something that clattered as his foot hit it. He looked down and saw a massive shotgun – a Mossberg, to be exact – lying on the ground. He slowly kneeled down and picked it up. He checked the chamber and saw that it was fully-loaded.

Just then, he heard a scream.

…

The driver of the Jeep threw himself back against the door, as far away from the opposite window as he could. He could only stare in mute horror as a massive fist punched right through the passenger-side window of the Jeep and grabbed the mouse by the back of his head.

Before Whitman even knew what was happening, he felt an extremely tight grip squeeze the back of his head painfully. He tried to reach up for it, and at the same time let out a scream. But before he could do anything else, he felt himself being pushed forward, and the next thing he felt was the powerful impact of the dashboard against his forehead. The hand jerked him back, and slammed him forward again.

As he was being thrown back and forth repeatedly, patches of blood starting to appear on the dashboard, he continued screaming repeatedly in pain, his yells being briefly cut off by the slamming of his head into the dashboard again and again.

The pig yelled out in terror, frantically removing his seat belt and kicking the door open. He jumped out and started running towards the other man, who was just coming around the heap of burning metal with his pistol raised.

Braskel saw the Jeep's driver running up to him, babbling in frantic Russian. He didn't understand what he was saying, but he really didn't need to. He looked from the pig to the Jeep still sitting in the middle of the road. He looked through the half-open driver's door, and was horrified: His partner, Whitman, had a massive hand grabbing onto the back of his head. That hand was repeatedly throwing him back and forth in the Jeep, slamming his forehead against the dashboard again and again. Even from this distance, Braskel could see the unmistakable red starting to fall from his partner's forehead.

Standing extremely tall behind the Jeep, his head higher than the roof, was the attacker. He looked down at the mouse with obviously no remorse as he slowly and painfully killed him.

Braskel's eyes widened.

"Oh, dear God…Get back, get back!" He yelled to the driver before raising his pistol.

However, the attacker heard him as well, and ducked his head below the roof of the Jeep moments before Braskel fired the first two shots. One flew high over the Jeep completely, while the other ricocheted off the roof.

The attacker was now almost completely shielded by both the Jeep and Whitman, and he was still slamming the former's head painfully against the dashboard. He noticeably slowed down a bit, but that only allowed for him to slam his head down even harder.

Braskel raised his pistol again, trying to focus as hard as he could and hoping to get a decent shot at the attacker. He finally got it, through the driver's side window. He waited until Whitman was pushed forward again, and fired.

He heard the shot. He knew that he had not hit Whitman, and there was nothing outside the passenger's side window but the mountain of a man. But he didn't see any sign of injury on his target, or any kind of reaction from him, even though he was absolutely sure that he had hit him. He simply continued bashing his partner's brains out.

At that point, Whitman's screaming slowly stopped. No longer was he yelling out for help and in pain, but only a quick, rough groan could be heard after every impact. The attacker realized how weak his prey was, and slowed down even further, pausing after every hit only to slam him forward with even more strength. At one point, Braskel was certain that he heard a loud crack. The worst part was that he was unable to tell if it was the dashboard or Whitman's skull.

The attacker paused, still holding the back of Whitman's head. Blood was dripping down freely from a massive gash in his forehead, running down his face, along his cheeks, nose, eyes, and dropping off his chin. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were half-closed.

There was a long pause.

Then, with all his might, the man yanked Whitman's head back as far as he could, then slammed it forward one last time. There was a second, even more horrible crack. When he pulled the mouse's head back again, it slumped forward, blood dripping from the mouth.

Braskel stared in mute horror, barely able to keep his gun straight.

The attacker then pulled open the door and dragged the body out, pulling it out of the seatbelt roughly rather than unbuckling it. He dragged the body out along the ground, leaving a noticeable trail of blood.

Braskel recovered with a quick shake of his head, and trained his pistol on the man as he came around the back of the Jeep.

The moment he saw the figure emerge into the open, he fired three more shots.

Only after he fired the third shot did he realize that the figure was holding his dead partner's body up in front him as a shield, and that was what absorbed the last three shots.

Eyes wide, Braskel stumbled backwards. He watched as the towering figure, still holding the corpse, approached him. He was moving impossibly fast, but impossibly slow at the same time. As Braskel backed up, he could feel the heat behind him increasing steadily, and he knew that he was unintentionally drawing closer to the still-burning wreck.

Then the figure was in front of him. Braskel aimed his pistol again, only for Whitman's body to suddenly lurch forward and completely block his view. All that Braskel felt was the sensation of stumbling backwards and slamming onto the hard, unforgiving gravel and dirt road with a large weight resting on top of him.

He looked up and found himself face-to-face with the bloody, dead face of Glen Whitman. Braskel frantically reached up and grabbed the body by the shoulders, throwing it aside and off of him.

As he threw the body off, he was aware of a massive shadow cast over him. He looked up and saw the mountain of a man towering over him, blocking out the sun.

His eyes were wider than ever, and his mouth dropped open.

"Oh, sh-."

That was all he had time to say before the figure reached down and took him by the throat with both hands. Braskel reached up with both of his hands, his left hand reaching for his own neck while his right hand aimed right at the attacker's face.

It was then that he realized that he had dropped his pistol when Whitman's body landed on him.

Fear now completely dominating all other thoughts and feelings, both of his hands slid over to the massive fists crushing his windpipe, desperately trying to slip even a few fingers in between his neck and the man's hands. But he couldn't find even the smallest bit of breathing room.

Then he was moving. The large man took long, hard steps as he drew closer to the helicopter's remains. Braskel managed to twist his head around behind him to see the burning wreckage draw closer. Now he could hear the roaring of the flames, feel the heat of the fire, smell the horrible smell of the thick black smoke…

Then, for a brief moment, he stopped. The man released one hand, but kept the other firmly grasping him. He kneeled down, and with his free hand, picked up the weapon that Braskel had dropped. Braskel noticed that, even as this man kneeled down completely, he was still unable to feel the ground with his own two feet.

The man straightened up, holding the gun in his left hand, and continued on.

Eventually, they stopped just a couple feet from the wreck. There were burning pieces of debris all around, and the heat from directly behind Braskel was so great that he could feel sweat collecting rapidly on his forehead.

The man looked up at Braskel, and both stared deeply into each other's eyes for a moment. Eugene Braskel could see nothing, nothing at all in those two deep, black eyes…nothing except for death.

Then, in a flash, the man raised the pistol, pulled the trigger once, then swiveled it to the right slightly and pulled the trigger a second time.

In less than half a second, Braskel could feel a whole new pain shoot through his body as the two bullets pierced both of his legs at the knees, one at a time. He could feel the metal penetrate his body, and could feel the blood ooze out from the wounds. He soon lost all feeling in both legs below the knees, even pain. He could sense both limbs instantly going limp.

The man lowered the gun and continued moving forward a bit more. Now Braskel could practically feel the flames licking his back.

The man stretched his arm out to its fullest length, so that the smoke brushed up against the helpless monkey's back. Braskel tried once again to pry some space between his crushing hand and his own neck.

Then, with one effortless motion, the man swung his arm to the side, then swung it forward again and released his grip, sending the now-crippled monkey flying straight into the burning wreckage.

Braskel flew straight through the flames and into the body of the helicopter, through the opening where one of the side doors had been, landing on the floor of the interior of the helicopter. Almost instantly he felt his entire back, from the back of his neck to the back of his knees, instantly sting in unbelievably hot pain. The scorching metal almost seemed to fuse to his body, burning right through his clothing, through his fur, right to his skin.

He unleashed a long, high, horrible scream of pain. He instantly started thrashing his arms around, but found that those were the only limbs he could move. Both of his legs were still completely paralyzed.

As his arms waved around, he realized that both of them were already on fire. He knew then that, if they could catch on fire, so could the rest of his body.

He looked down along the length of his torso and saw that, sure enough, all of his clothes had caught on fire. Now his body was burning all over.

He continued screaming wildly, thrashing around in pain and trying desperately to move. Eventually, he managed to roll over onto his stomach. This only made it worse, as the scorching metal now got its share of his front side, too, burning him up and down the front of his body as well. His scream got worse, higher and higher, as more and more pain registered throughout his entire body. He shook around, unable to move either forward or back. He placed his hands down on the floor, hoping to pull himself forward, but the moment his palms touched the floor, he instinctively jerked them away.

He was trapped. Surrounded on all sides by a burning hell. Hell on earth…

Just then, at the last moment, he remembered something else that made his eyes widen and made him briefly forget about the pain.

The spare magazine that he had for his pistol, still clasped to his holster.

The timing was perfect. Just as this thought crossed his mind, the bullets started going off, ignited by the fire.

The first shot, sounding so close, rang loud and painfully caused another sharp sting on his waist. He could hear it ricochet off somewhere inside the helicopter. He covered his head with his hands as the next three went off in rapid succession. Then another two. Then a seventh one. He knew that only two were left, as his model took only nine rounds per magazine. He had heard them all ricochet off the metal, yet none had hit him. He was hoping, in fact praying, that one would hit him in the head or something and kill him quicker.

Then the next two went off. He had no idea whether it was the first or the second, but one of the two bullets finally granted his wish, although not the way he would've wanted. The bullet rebounded into his right arm, striking just below the elbow, inches from his head.

He yelped out in pain again as his right arm instinctively jerked up from the impact. It stayed up in the air for a moment before flopping down motionless onto the burning metal floor, also paralyzed. He could feel the pain burning from the elbow up as it laid against the hot metal.

That was all nine shots. It was done. He was to die by slowly and painfully burning to death.

Braskel continued screaming, nonstop and consistently. He didn't know what good it did now. It did none. It was the only way to react to the pain. He was unable to not scream. He kept screaming and screaming and screaming, feeling as if he was burning forever. His entire field of vision was either orange or yellow. At one point he thought he could see the unmistakable shade of red, pooling around him. He could feel a strange liquid-like sensation, as if his skin was liquidizing and dropping off of him.

Then, finally, mercifully, it was over.

…

He watched as the monkey thrashed around inside the burning wreckage, screaming in pain immediately after landing inside. When he caught on fire, his screams only got worse. Then, suddenly, gunshots started going off. He instinctively moved back from the wreck until all nine shots had gone off. Even through that, the monkey survived and continued screaming as he burned. It seemed to last almost a minute and a half, if not two, before he finally collapsed, dead.

He stood and stared at it for a few long moments.

Then, suddenly, he heard a car door slam behind him. He spun around to see the third man – the pig – jump back into the Jeep and instantly kick up dirt and gravel as he slammed the acceleration. He then turned the wheel hard all the way to the right, spinning around a full 180 degrees and heading back towards the tunnel.

He looked down at the pistol in his hand, knowing that the monkey had fired six shots from it, and he himself had fired two shots to cripple the late monkey. There was one shot left.

The Jeep entered the dark tunnel. He slowly raised the pistol, closed one eye, staring right down the short barrel, trying to get a good aim at the driver.

He fired. The final shell shot out from the chamber, clattering to the ground below.

He paused for a few seconds, opening his closed eye and lowering the gun.

Nothing. The Jeep was still speeding off. He had missed.

He looked down at the pistol, then nonchalantly turned on his heels and casually tossed the now-worthless weapon into the fire as well. He turned and kneeled down to pick up the mouse's lifeless body, grabbing it by the neck as well. He turned and, with slightly more effort than it would take to skip a pebble, tossed it into the burning wreckage as well.

It was too perfect that these men were clearly law enforcement officials. Now, with their remains in an Interpol-owned helicopter, nothing would seem immediately out of the ordinary. Their corpses would be burned completely, eliminating traces of the bleeding forehead. They had been killed in the same way that he was almost killed; engaged in a gunfight with the Cooper gang, a distraction causing them to crash into the wall and explode, but not before the mouse's head had jerked forward and slammed into the controls, knocking him unconscious and leaving him to burn to death in the wreckage. Meanwhile, the monkey, who had survived the initial impact, was killed when his own magazine went off as the bullets were ignited by the flames, and two bullets had hit him in both legs, crippling him and leaving him unable to escape.

That is, _if_ their bodies were ever found.

He slowly walked around the wreck to the other side, the side he had escaped from. He bent down and picked up his one last remaining weapon: The Mossberg. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.

He looked up at the massive cliff face, with a few pieces of debris and small fires still dotting it.

It had been quite tough, he had to admit to himself. After the explosion, making it to the right door and opening it without falling out was quite difficult due to the helicopter leaning to one side. However, once he had gained a firm grip on the wall, he simply had to wait until the last moment to leap out and land on the highest ledge, with the shrubbery and rocks – not to mention the massive burning helicopter – being his cover from the four observers.

He spun on his heels, creating a small circle in the gravel beneath him, and started walking down the road, away from the wreckage, away from the two dead bodies, and closer to his target.

**To be continued…**


	14. Return of the Nightmare

Return of the Nightmare

_Darkness. Darkness._

_He felt as if he was gliding, floating on air, moving forward, but not moving forward. Blackness, darkness, empty void, surrounded him completely on all sides._

_Then, suddenly, a cold, hard, flat surface materialized underneath him. It was gray and metal. The floor of the van. Beside him on both sides were the walls of the van, above him was the ceiling, and in front of him were the two rear doors. He turned around, and saw nobody else in the van. No one else in the driver's seat. Yet the wheel was still moving, turning side-to-side occasionally. He turned back to face the rear doors._

_Then, suddenly, the rear doors flew off. Effortlessly and soundlessly, the two metal doors broke away and flew off into the darkness. _

_At that moment, a familiar light ringing started sounding in his ears. _

_He knew what it was. He remembered it. He tried to raise his hands to cover his ears to drown out that horrible sound, but he couldn't. Ring, ring, ring, ring._

_Ringing, ringing…_

_Then the roof of the van above him also tore off, only it flew straight up into the forbidding void above until it was gone. Out of sight. Enveloped by blackness._

_Then, the ringing once again transitioned to a low humming. That humming, humming, humming, hum, hum…_

_Then the massive computer console flew off to the side, as did the firearms all laid neatly beneath it._

_Then the humming turned into the all-too-familiar thumping. Thumping away, thumping away, unseen, thumping in the distance and thumping right in his ears._

_Then, finally, the source of it appeared. That familiar helicopter materialized out of blackness, hovering just behind what little remained of the van. Those blades spinning constantly, creating that thumping, that thumping…_

_Only this time, the windshield was not covered in cracks and bullet holes. And it was also close enough. Close enough to see the pilot. The impossibly black cloud was there, completely absorbing the seat. Just a big black shape, no definitive size or form, just sat there. Then, once again, two eyes appeared on the front of it. However, these eyes were not the beady yellow eyes that they were before. They were brown._

_Brown eyes. Brown eyes that he had seen before. That he knew before. That he had gazed into lovingly before._

_The black cloud slowly materialized into a very familiar body. A very familiar face._

_Carmelita. His wife. His beloved late wife. Sitting in the pilot's seat of that helicopter._

_Before he knew it, the half-van he was sitting in had begun to slow down. The helicopter drew closer and closer. That thumping remained the same. That thumping. That thumping…_

_Then, he moved to the side. The half-van was now out of the helicopter's way, and slowing down to be directly alongside it. He could now look up and down the entire length of the small helicopter. She sat in the pilot's seat, looking straight ahead into the black. Her gaze was distant…despondent…almost dead._

_That thumping, that thumping…_

_He wanted nothing more than to call out to her. To say her name. To get her to look at him. To look into her eyes again and know that she was looking back at him…_

_That thumping, that thumping…_

_Then, in an instant, the front of the helicopter began suddenly crushing in on itself. It was just like before, only it was much slower. Also, it was completely silent. The only sound was the continuous thumping of the blades. The metal frame, the glass windshield, in slow-motion, grinded in on itself, crushing back towards the rear end. She sat completely motionless, that despondent look still hovering in her faint eyes. That thumping, that thumping…_

_Then the crushing had hit her, completely swallowing her up in the mess of twisted metal and breaking glass. He wanted to move. He wanted to scream. But he could only sit and stare. All the while, the only sound that could be heard was that thumping, that thumping…_

_It continued crushing in on itself. But this time, it went even further. It was almost like a wave of destruction that swept over the body from front to back. It continued crushing itself even at the halfway point, all along the tail. Only the blades on top remained, still thumping, thumping, thumping…_

_Then, the entire body was one giant, twisted lump of metal. Only the propellers were completely untouched. They were still spinning nonstop. That thumping, that thumping…_

_Then, all of a sudden, a massive orange blast emitted from inside the twisted lump. It spread out, also moving slowly, consuming the heap of metal and the intact propellers. The thumping ceased abruptly, now replaced with a long, deep, consistent roaring. The roaring of the flames, of the smoke, and of the blast. That roaring, that roaring…_

_He was right next to it when it went up, and the orange blast easily and instantly consumed him and the entire half-van, too. He was surrounded on all sides by fire, smoke, debris, and heat. It was all moving by so slow. That roaring, that roaring…_

_And the heat…he felt burning heat, swelling up all around him as it closed in on him._

_That roaring…that roaring…_

_A forest in Eastern Russia; Sunday, June 12, 10:27 P.M…_

With a jolt, he shot up. He could feel the sweat that had collected on his palms and his forehead. The ringing and the humming and the thumping and the roaring were all gone. There was only the sound of his rapid breathing and the beating of his own heart.

Then he heard an owl's hoot in the distance.

Sly wiped off his forehead with the back of his palm. He took a deep breath, paused, then slowly exhaled. Another hoot. He inhaled again, then exhaled even more slowly.

There was a fluttering of wings, and the slight crunching of leaves.

Sly threw off the blanket and got to his feet. He picked up his hat and put it on, then grabbed the flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other.

He unzipped the entrance to his tent and stepped out, turning on the flashlight and waving it around once. He saw the other two tents; one on his left, one on his right. Directly ahead was the van. Surrounding them on all sides were trees, completely concealing them within this small clearing.

He saw a flutter of movement and waved the flashlight over, only to catch a single small bird fly out of a nearby tree, the leaves on the branch it was just on waving softly.

He sighed, lowering both the pistol and the flashlight.

He looked back at the van. He remembered Bentley saying that its front end was pointing north. In the direction of the Volcano. In the direction of whoever, and whatever was waiting for them.

Sly stared hard, past the van, and into the woods. There were just trees. Endless, endless trees. He stared as hard as he could, but just couldn't see or hear anything.

_Guess three miles really is far away enough._ He thought.

He sighed again.

_Whatever's waiting for me there…I'm ready for it._

…

The badger stared at his gold-plated watch as the second hand slowly ticked away. The hour hand was between the ten and the eleven, and the minute hand was right next to the six.

Then, finally, the minute hand struck the twelve. It was 10:30 P.M.

Vlotho sighed and kicked his legs up onto the wooden desk.

"A full day has passed." He announced to himself. "The second day is upon us."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.

"Soon…oh, so soon. I only wish that three days could go by faster…but I simply can't risk it as long as _he_ is alive."

He glanced across the room, to where the deaf guard was sitting on his own little stool, reading a novel.

Vlotho shook his head. "A shame that you're not as fine a henchman and bodyguard as you could be, Hans. You have been far more loyal to me than any other man who has ever worked for me. You do whatever I command you to, without question or hesitation or rebellion. It is a shame that you cannot share in my glory. But, on the other hand, your deafness allows me to speak my mind openly to someone else, rather than think them silently in my head, and better get them out of the way. It feels so much better to explain my thoughts verbally than mentally, wouldn't you agree?"

The turn of a page was his only response.

"I knew you would." Vlotho grinned.

He sat up straight in his desk, taking his feet off the top. He slowly pushed himself up and out of his chair and turned around to face the massive window that made up the entire fourth wall directly behind his desk. He walked up to it and placed a single hand against it, leaning forward and looking down into the massive orange light from below. The summit of the Volcano below him cast a natural glow on that side of his office from below. Several pieces of debris, such as metal or rock, were still in the pool of lava. But for the most part, it was completely clean and empty. Even the massive Death Ray had long since burned away into nothing since its destruction.

"It truly is almost a shame what I must do upon entering the second Clockwerk's mainframe." He shook his head again. "You, Grant, and all of the other men who work here. It truly is heart-breaking…to anyone who has a heart."

He slowly slid his hand down the glass a bit, then pulled it away. He watched the traces of his fingerprints slowly decrease in size, becoming smaller and smaller until vanishing completely.

"But you men all have knowledge of this place. This one and only place in the whole world where our special metal can be found. Many of the scientists and factory workers know full well how some of our additional weapons operate. They know their design, their schematics, their functions by heart. Some even know every single little detail of the Clockwerk itself, including potential weaknesses. For all of these reasons and more, all of the men here must be removed from the equation."

He spun around and took a quick look back at Hans. He was still looking down at the book.

"I thought that, had I been facing you, you might have been able to read my lips and decipher some of what I had been saying. But clearly, you are so loyal that you don't even slightly pay attention to me or what I'm saying unless I give you the signal."

Vlotho chuckled and turned around again.

"Unbelievably loyal. Like a machine. You truly are one in six billion, Hans. But that won't be able to save you. Or Grant. Or anyone else in this facility besides me and me only."

He moved back to his seat and slowly eased himself into it.

"In two more days…"

Just then, the small speaker next to the elevator doors buzzed again, and the red light flashed on.

Vlotho looked across the room at it, then slowly eased himself up out of his seat once again. As he walked around the desk, Hans looked up briefly from the book and at his superior. Vlotho shook his palm at him, signaling that nothing was wrong. Hans returned his attention to his book.

Vlotho held down the button on the speaker.

"Yes."

"Commander, this is Colonel Grant. There's something that I think you might be interested in seeing here, sir."

**To be continued…**


	15. Reconnaissance

Reconnaissance

_A forest in Eastern Russia; Monday, June 13, 6:45 P.M…_

The four members of the gang stood alongside the van, looking down on the ground at the device that Bentley had brought out.

"Alright, all systems are ready to go."

"Bentley, are you sure that this is the best way to do some reconnaissance?" Sly asked worriedly.

"Absolutely. Since last time, I've updated the RC chopper even more. It's now a combination of my latest model and your latest model. It has the ability to drop bombs, a Yank 86, a forward-firing turret that can be adjusted, a camera on the underside that can take still pictures, and another camera on the front that can give us a live feed. And the best part: It now has a cloaking device. Similar to whatever shield surrounds the vicinity around the Volcano, this will prevent the chopper from being detected by radar. That, combined with new silenced blades and its overall very small size and improved maneuverability, makes it the ultimate reconnaissance tool, and perfect for fighting back if ever detected. Plus, I've reinforced it with bullet-proof metal."

"Wow." Murray replied, noticeably impressed. "All that in just one little toy?"

"Yep. And remember: We've also got the RC car, also with bullet-proof metal, a camera, and adjustable turrets. That's in the back of the van, too."

"We could wage war on whatever's over there with just those two if we wanted." Murray joked.

"Hardly." Sly retorted. "I doubt that whatever's over there has minimal security. It's clearly going to be tough. But we need to get decent reconnaissance first before we can make a decent evaluation."

"Usually I'm the one who says that. But Sly's absolutely right."

"Alright, enough chit-chat." Penelope cut in. "Let's get this bird flying."

"Penelope's right."

Bentley then moved around the others to the open rear doors of the van and jumped back in, the other three all following him. They watched as he wheeled over to the massive computer monitor and switched it on. He then reached behind the monitor and pulled out a thin gray cord. He attached it into a small hole in the back of the remote.

"OK, everyone: Here it goes!"

Bentley turned a small key on the remote, and the RC chopper's small blades started spinning. Just as Bentley said, they made almost no sound whatsoever, and the only feeling was the slight breeze from the spinning blades. He then slowly moved one joystick on the remote up, and the chopper rose off the ground, the blades of grass blowing away from it as it rose. It was now hovering about four feet off the ground.

"OK, so now I just need to channel the chopper's transmitter through this monitor, and…"

Bentley typed away furiously on the keyboard, glancing between the rapidly-clacking keys and the static-covered monitor.

Then, after a brief crackle, the screen turned from static to the chopper's POV, showing all of the trees dead ahead.

"Excellent! Now we can see whatever the chopper sees, right here from the van."

He then picked up the remote and moved the right joystick forward. "Now we're moving north. Destination: The Krak-Karov Volcano."

As Bentley piloted the small chopper away from the clearing and through the woods, the last four words all created a slight lump in everyone's throat. Especially Sly Cooper.

After what seemed like several hours, the chopper finally cleared the woods. The four of them watched intently as it broke through the trees and emerged into the light.

What they all saw before them on the monitors made their jaws drop almost simultaneously.

There was the familiar, menacing Volcano, smoke still spewing from its summit. But at the base of the Volcano, attached to part of the Volcano wall and stretching out from it like an extra, artificial appendage, was a massive facility. Multiple buildings, all pressed together against each other at certain junctures, and constructed of a sleek, shiny metal. Most of the buildings seemed no higher than two or three stories. However, the part of the facility that was directly against the Volcano wall was much larger, wider, and higher, slightly bulkier and darker, with some square sections protruding from the ceiling. The rest of the buildings were mostly of plain square or rectangular shapes, and had few features to them besides a few doors and some windows. Walking in and out of buildings, as well as all around them, were many men. All of them seemed small from this distance, but it was still clear to see that there were many of them, everywhere.

In addition to the central mass of buildings, there were two other notable structures. One was directly above the massive section pressed against the Volcano wall. It was a long, thin tube, seemingly of glass, stretching up from the bulky part, running all the way up the length of the wall, up to a smaller chamber resting at the very top of the Volcano, perched on the edge of the crater.

The other was a massive building, perfectly square, and just as large as the part of the facility against the Volcano. It was particularly tall, and with a roof that curved at the top and hung down over the edges, like a hangar's roof. The unique thing about this building was that it was completely set apart from the rest of the facility, sitting by itself out in the grass; a single drop that was separate from a large puddle of metal at the base of the Volcano.

The four of them were absolutely speechless.

"Oh…my…gadzooks." Bentley finally muttered.

"Move in closer, Bentley. We can't stop now. We need to get a better look. And be careful." Sly swiftly and nonchalantly commanded.

The chopper continued flying high over the facility, moving over the one building that was by itself.

Then, just as the chopper flew over the lone building, a scratchy, ragged sound could be heard emitting from the computer.

"What's that? What is that?" Sly asked frantically.

"It's the built-in Geiger Counter. It detects any radioactivity that's directly below the chopper. It's going crazy over that one building that's by itself. I'm directly over it right now…holy cow, it's off the charts!"

"Take some aerial pictures and come back to that building later. For now, check out the rest of the facility. And stay high."

The chopper continued moving along. Every now and then, whenever it was directly over one of the guards, Bentley would snap another picture. Even when he was directly over the facility, a majority of which was just plain gray squares and rectangles, he continued snapping picture after picture.

"OK, now I'm heading towards the area that's right up against the Volcano."

"Be careful. That's the section that's elevated more, so it could make it easier for them to see you."

Bentley moved the chopper over the rest of the facility, over to the large bulky part. Once he was over the larger section, he took several pictures.

Then the ragged, scratchy sound returned.

"Oh, boy. I'm sensing more radioactivity in this area of the facility, too. In much greater quantities, I might add."

"Proceed with caution."

Finally, he was close to the long, glass tube along the Volcano wall. He snapped several more pictures. The scratching continued.

Finally, the RC chopper moved away from the bulky area of the facility, moving over desolate, rocky terrain just behind the metal buildings, at the base of the Volcano. Eventually, the chopper was directly over the all-too familiar path at the base of the Volcano on the other side. The same path they had driven along in their first raid on the Volcano all those years ago. More pictures.

"I think that's enough pictures, Sly." Bentley said after about 10 more minutes. "I'm not liking it here, with the radioactivity and the danger of being seen. I think it's time to bring it back."

"Agreed. Bring it in."

…

"I can't believe that I wasn't spotted!" Bentley exclaimed once he brought the chopper in and eased it down behind the van.

Sly swiped it up.

"Looks like those modifications of yours are doing their job. Now how do we get a good look at these pictures?"

"Place the RC chopper on the desk next to the remote."

Sly did as he commanded, and Bentley pulled up another small, black cord. He tipped the chopper onto its side, with the underside facing them. He plugged one end into a small hole directly underneath the chopper, and the other end into yet another hole in the back of the remote.

"OK, so I transfer the memory from the RC chopper through to the remote, and then through that again to the computer, and…"

After more rapid typing, he hit the "Enter" button.

"Done."

The screen changed from black to the first photograph that Bentley had taken: Of the single, lone building that sat away from the rest of the facility. It appeared very plain from above.

"That's the building where the Geiger Counter first started going crazy." Bentley reminded them.

Sly placed a single hand on the desktop and leaned in closer.

"It's definitely large. Something huge is in there. What's next?"

"I took a couple more pictures of that building, but nothing else different." As Bentley flipped through the next two nonchalantly, the angle on the building changed slightly, but not dramatically, with each shot.

The fourth shot was of some of the guards below.

"OK, let me zoom in here."

Bentley moved one of the joysticks up, and the image grew larger as it focused towards the center. The image of the guard grew larger, and it was still amazingly high quality.

"Yep. Just as I thought. He's heavily armed."

"I'll say!" Murray agreed. "Just look at that shotgun!"

Bentley moved the focus over to another guard in the same shot, who was holding a long rifle.

Bentley zoomed in on each and every guard, studied them a bit, and then moved onto the next image, which also showed several guards.

As they magnified and studied each of the guards captured on camera, one thing was for sure: They were all heavily armed. From Uzis in their hands, to pistols at their waists, to shotguns slung over their shoulders. They also wore matching uniforms of black, short-sleeved, plain shirts, dark gray belts, matching black pants, and black boots. Some of them also wore black hats, and some bore black gloves.

"Would you take a look at that? They all have…uniforms. And so many weapons. This place has clearly been around a while." Penelope explained.

"And they're very well-organized, too." Bentley added, with a note of worry and disbelief in his voice.

"This is unbelievable. Take a look at some of those guys!" Murray exclaimed. "Those guns could blast ours in half in a second!"

"I feared the worst." Sly said grimly. "And this is the worst."

They moved through the rest of the images, which depicted the roofs of the various sections of the facility as the chopper had hovered directly over them. They were all plain, flat, and gray. Nothing else interesting. Even as Bentley moved to the pictures of the large, bulky section where the Geiger Counter had gone off for the second time, nothing seemed immediately unusual or unique about it.

Nevertheless, things looked grim.

Once they finished going through all the pictures, Bentley shut off the monitor and sighed.

Sly turned and stepped down out of the van and onto the grass. He started walking away aimlessly.

Bentley noticed this first, and immediately wheeled out after him.

"Sly, Sly wait!"

"Why? What good will it do?"

"Sly, I know that look on your face. It's the look you've gotten only once before…"

"Yes. It is. It's the look of defeat. Deal with it."

"You can't give up now! We're so close!"

"What do you propose that we do? Did you _see_ those pictures? Did you _see_ all of the heavily-armed guards? Did you _see_ the heavily-fortified facility or whatever it is out there? Don't you get it? We're in over our heads! We're way out of our league! We weren't prepared for this. They've probably got a whole army over there. Do you really think that, with these three guns and two RC toys, we can actually stand a chance? No! We can't! It's as plain and simple as that!"

Bentley, as well as the other members of the gang, were greatly taken aback by Sly's sudden outburst.

After a long, awkward pause, Murray was the first to speak up. "But we've faced hundreds of goons before and still managed to come out on top. I'm sure these guys won't be any different."

"Murray, do you remember that man? The one who chased us halfway across downtown LA? And survived the train crash? And chased us up the mountain road in the helicopter?"

"That guy's dead, Sly. We all watched it burn."

"Still. Remember what I told you? The handle of the knife that he held had the traces of radioactivity from the Karovanine on it. That means he came from here. If just one guy like him was that hard to kill, imagine how hard a hundred, or two hundred guys just like him would be!"

After a nervous swallow, Bentley started to speak. "Well, it's…it's not completely hopeless, Sly. It's not like we have to handle this by ourselves, just the four of us."

"What do you suggest then, huh? Call in the army?"

"You're still technically employed by Interpol. You could call in reinforcements…"

"Need I remind you that if I did that, I'd be forced to tell them about my meeting up with you guys again? About our entire parade through LA? About how we opened fire on Interpol property and murdered a man? About how I've broken several laws as it is, and can be found guilty of, in addition to all the hundreds of crimes from my past, conspiracy and perjury? They'd probably just swoop in here like the marines and arrest all of us, and not even bat an eyebrow in the direction of the Volcano! You guys would all be caught, and so would I! No, it's too late to call on Interpol. Way too late."

Sly grabbed his head in both hands and ruffled up his own hair in frustration, turning away from the others. "We were so close!" He muttered. "So close…"

"Well, what do we do now?" Penelope asked. "I mean, if he thinks we shouldn't try to do anything, then we shouldn't. But we can't just leave, can we?"

"They never spotted the RC chopper." Bentley noted. "And if they already knew that we were here, I think they'd have done something by now."

"Well, what are you saying?" Murray asked.

"I don't care what he's saying." Sly shot back. "I don't care what any of you say right now. I don't know what to think, what to do, or what to say. I just want to be alone."

And with that, Sly disappeared into his tent.

The other three members were completely stunned, completely speechless, at the sudden and harsh behavior exhibited by their old friend.

"This is bad." Bentley finally said blankly. "I've never seen Sly like this. Never."

"Wonder what's got him so riled up?" Murray added.

"Isn't it obvious, guys?" Penelope spoke up.

Bentley and Murray turned to her.

"He lost his wife. The woman he loved more than anyone else in the world. Clearly, someone over at that facility is responsible."

"Wait, I thought it was that guy in the helicopter who was responsible."

"Well, he might have committed the actual act, but if what we all fear is true, and he was just an assassin, then someone from over there sent him. Someone in charge of that place. Besides, even if he was entirely responsible, that still doesn't change the fact that there's a massive, heavily-guarded, fully radioactive facility over there that wasn't there 15 years ago."

"So, what are you saying?"

"Sly wants to go much further than avenge his wife's death. He wants to deal with this…this place here. Clearly, it's dangerous."

"Now hold up. How do we know it's not just some kind of government facility?"

"If that was the Russian government, then why would they go to all the trouble of sending an assassin out to kill a bunch of people from different countries all around the world, none of which including Russia, and who, prior to this, had absolutely no knowledge of this place? That would be a bureaucratic nightmare that they'd have one heck of a time trying to explain."

"OK, but still; _what can we do_?" Bentley asked, repeating the question that was on everyone's minds.

"I…I don't know. And Sly doesn't know, either. I feel that he wants to do something, but knows that he can't. He wants to storm in there with our weapons and whatnot, but knows that we'll get blasted for sure. And he knows that calling Interpol, while easily enough to take over whatever base is over there, would also result in us being captured. And, for him, that would mean throwing away the 8 solid years of police work that he had done alongside Carmelita."

Bentley and Murray turned and looked in the direction of Sly's tent. There was no movement at all. Not a single sound.

…

_10:30 P.M…_

Vlotho lowered his watch and eased it into his lap.

"It is now officially the third day. In 24 more hours, the Clockwerk shall launch and fly again. It shall be glorious." He said to Hans, who, as always, didn't react.

"Nothing shall stop us. Not even Sly Cooper."

**To be continued…**


	16. The Final Nightmare

The Final Nightmare

_There was nothing. He felt nothing. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. He smelled nothing. He sensed…nothing._

_It was darkness, darkness stretching all around on all sides, up and down, left and right, straight and across…darkness…_

_Then, suddenly, something materialized. Just barely, on the edge of reality, he could start to feel something around him. At first, it was transparent. Then it grew more and more visible, and clearly present. It was gray. It was flat. It was dull. It was featureless._

_It was a hallway._

_A long, long, dark, depressing hallway. On all sides, he was surrounded by a solid metal, very dull, but at the same time with its own strange eminence of pristine and beauty. A dark kind of beauty. A silent kind of beauty._

_The metal hallway stretched on, impossibly endless, ahead of him. He turned to look behind him, but saw only more hallway. However, he noticed that, on both sides, stretching just as far as the hallway itself, there were metal doors. Door after door after door after door after door…after door._

_He willed his hardest to move and, surprisingly, found himself perfectly capable of mobilizing in this particular instance, unlike the two previous encounters. He moved one foot in front of the other, bringing it down onto the metal floor. There was no sound. No slight thump of his foot on the metal, no feeling as his foot touched its cold, hard surface. It was as if he was stepping on cotton…no, softer…as if he was stepping on a cloud. It looked so dull and despondent, yet felt so light and distant._

_He moved in this fashion to the nearest door, on his left. It was the same kind of metal, only setback and slightly darker. There was a single handle on it. He reached for the handle._

_Then it was gone. The handle was gone._

_He hadn't even blinked. The handle hadn't sunk into the metal, or vanished in a cloud of smoke. It was just gone._

_Then, strangely, the door itself started to move towards him. Instinctively, he backed away._

_The door moved forward, aligning itself with the rest of the wall and leaving behind its frame. Just as it was perfectly aligned with the wall itself, the crevices between wall and door seemed to mold over themselves, filling in the gaps and causing the door to completely and seamlessly blend in with the rest of the wall. The door was gone._

_He turned around sharply to face the next nearest door, slightly further down and on the opposite side. He quickly strode up to it and reached for the handle. This time, he managed to touch it._

_However, the same thing happened a second time. The handle vanished just like that._

_Then the door slowly moved forward once again, blending in with the rest of the wall just like the previous one, until it was completely blended in._

_He turned and faced down the hall. To his horror, the same thing started happening to every other door, as far down as he could see. The handles vanished instantly, and the doors slid forward and blended in. He spun around, watching as all of the doors in the other direction behind him did the exact same. _

_Now he was locked in a massive, empty, metal hallway with no way out. He realized that the only features left in the entire, endless hallway were two light bulbs in the ceiling._

_Then, slowly and surely, he heard something. A deep, terrifying sound._

_A humming. A deep, low, approaching humming. That humming, that humming, that humming._

_It was all too familiar. Sly desperately and frantically covered his ears, but it was no use._

_He could only listen, squeezing his eyes shut as the humming grew louder. Louder, louder…louder._

_Then, suddenly, he felt a strange vibration, below him, above him, all around him. Everything around him was steadily and surely vibrating. He slowly opened his eyes and removed his hands from his ears. At first it was a rather gentle kind of vibration, slightly soft and almost relaxing._

_Then it started to get slightly rougher. At the same time, the humming started to get louder. That humming…that vibrating…that humming…that vibrating…_

_Then, before he knew it, something strange was happening. Just as the vibrating reached point where he was barely able to stand up straight, he could hear the humming slowly and surely transition to something else. A new sound. A groaning. The long, hard, deep groaning of metal. That groaning…that groaning…that groaning…_

_Then he felt another kind of movement shaking him, and it wasn't the vibrations. He looked down and saw that the metal floor directly beneath him was moving. It was moving straight forward from underneath him. He looked around frantically, and saw both walls and the ceiling were doing the same. They were moving away from him, pulling further out into endlessness. However, they weren't moving normally. They weren't sliding along smoothly. It was as if they were stretching. Yes, stretching as if it was a kind of liquid, stretching out from underneath him and moving further down the hall. _

_He could feel the floor beneath him growing unstable, his feet sinking into the now liquid-like floor as if it was sand._

_Then, just as he felt that he was about to completely fall through, he stopped where he was. By this time, the hall had completely stretched away from him. He turned around, but saw only blackness once again. He looked back. The liquid sections of the hall were as far back as they could go, but they didn't stop there. They started to envelop the solid sections, spreading over it and turning the whole hall into a liquid metal._

_He watched as the hall, now a long, hollow, empty metal rectangle, slowly started to transform. It started to spread out as it became more of a liquid, stretching out before him. At the same time, the humming started to change and become more of a beat. Hum-hum, hum-hum, hum-hum…_

_And even though he was no longer standing on the metal, he could still feel the violent vibrating jolting him up and down._

_Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, the end of the hallway appeared and drew closer, as the walls of the hall continued to spread out more. At the same time, the two lone light bulbs drew closer to each other, moving closer until they were right next to each other. Then they slowly moved around until they were now side-by-side, both clearly in his view rather than one. Even then, they started to spread out even further, moving farther away from each other._

_Hum-hum, hum-hum, hum-hum…_

_Then, as the hallway stretched out farther on each side, it also started stretching out on the bottom, too. From the bottom of the liquidized hall, two appendages stretched out, with two balls at the end of small stems. Then the two balls split open, turning into strange claws. Then the claws split apart into smaller sections, becoming multiple claws with sharp tips._

_The sides of the liquidized hall continued stretching out, farther and farther. Both were now flat, blank rectangles on each side. However, at the end of each rectangle, the edges slowly started to peel away from the bottom and work its way up, the ends turning into slanted pieces of metal, each with a 45-degree angle. Then, long ridges started to appear in each of the rectangles, the first one appearing at the very end, slashing from top to bottom as it appeared. The next appeared by slashing bottom to top. The ridges appearing on the other one followed the exact same pattern. Top to bottom, bottom to top, top to bottom, bottom to top._

_Hum-hum, hum-hum, hum-hum, hum-hum…_

_Then, strangely, the hum-humming started to stretch out, with the sounds getting longer and more stretched out, like the hall itself was. It sounded as if something was hindering the length of the sounds to make them longer, the first hum always being longer than the second._

_Huuum-hum, huuum-hum, huuum-hum…_

_As the ridges finally lined both sides of the hallway, and the appendages on the bottom stretched out, exposing all of its claws, the new shape of the hallway started to become painfully familiar._

_The two light bulbs, now at a fair distance from each other, started to grow larger. Larger, larger, larger…they also started to grow brighter, brighter, brighter…like two eyes._

_It was suddenly very clear. The long, ridged sides, the two claws at the bottom, the two yellow eyes._

_He watched in mute horror as the hallway floating in a liquid form before him transformed into his long-dead mortal enemy, Clockwerk. The stretched out huuum-humming now sounded exactly like the flapping of wings, matching as his two long wings flapped up and down repeatedly._

_He wanted to move. To turn around. To run away. But he couldn't. Once again, he was completely immobile._

_Clockwerk started to move in closer to him, those horrible yellow eyes blinding him, forcing him to look away. But at the same time, they were their own strange kind of sanctuary, as the only source of light in this endless black void._

_As he tried his hardest to focus on those horribly yellow eyes, the massive beak slowly opened, the massive metal jaws splitting apart much farther than usual. Then his head twisted to the side, briefly turning away from him._

_Then, in one quick motion, the head jerked back forward, mouth wide open, and it unleashed a horrible, searing, painfully loud scream – a horrible roar that shook his entire body, and seemed to shake the endless void that he was in._

_A forest in Eastern Russia; Monday, June 13, 10:06 P.M…_

Just then, too perfectly, Sly's nightmare was completely shattered by a sudden explosion. At first, the explosion blended in perfectly with the roar he was hearing in his nightmare. Then it came through as something much larger and stronger. He heard the massive blast and his eyes shot open. He sat up straight, looking through the semi-transparent material of the tent. He could see the massive orange light on the other side.

In the direction of the van.

Sly jumped up and frantically unzipped the flap of the tent, throwing it aside and stepping out. Just as he feared, the old van was gone. Completely consumed in the fireball, still glowing bright and fresh as it billowed up to the sky through the clearing in the trees. Its magnificent orange glare turned the night into day for a few seconds. Pieces of metal and debris were flying in all directions, some whizzing past Sly or landing right at his feet. Soon, the orange began to give way to the black of the smoke, which continued rising as the fire continued roaring.

Immediately, Murray was out of his tent in a flash, shotgun in one hand, rifle in the other.

When he came out and saw what it was that had been hit, he dropped both firearms to the ground.

"…My van…"

He fell to his knees.

"MY…BEAUTIFUL…VAN!"

To Murray, it was the most incomprehensible thing imaginable. That his van, his precious van, had finally seen its last day. This van, which was his for almost two decades, which had seen so many battles, sped through so many chases, taken so many bullets, and had saved all of their lives on many occasions, was gone. Gone up in smoke. Literally. Right before his own eyes.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Murray screamed in agony.

Sly looked back at his friend, hung his head, then slowly turned and looked back at the van.

At that moment, as the black almost completely overtook the orange, and just as the initial shock set in and started to die down, the horrible implication finally set in.

They knew they were here.

Sly's eyes widened, just before another agonizing scream sounded.

"GUYS! SLY! MURRAY! HELP!"

It came from Bentley and Penelope's tent. Sly turned and dashed over to the tent, the flap of which was mysteriously already open, and tore through.

Bentley was lying there, just fine in his sleeping bag, the wheelchair next to him alongside all of his other equipment, which was also completely unharmed.

It took a few seconds for Sly to notice the real damage: The sleeping bag next to Bentley was empty.

"Penelope?" Sly asked nervously.

"SHE'S GONE! THEY TOOK HER!"

He walked over and picked up his partner out of the sleeping bag, easing him back into his chair. Bentley immediately wheeled out of the tent, Sly following behind him.

"PENELOPE!" Bentley called out desperately into the woods. "PENELOPE!"

The change of his voice made it clear that he was already on the verge of tears.

Meanwhile, Murray was still on his knees nearby, both guns on the ground beside him, and the van still burning.

Sly looked back and forth between the scene of complete chaos, which had been perfectly tranquil just 20 seconds ago. Bentley, frantically wheeling around alongside the edge of the woods, frantically screaming out his girlfriend's name. Murray, on his knees in the grass and sobbing loudly like he never had before. The van, still burning away and with nothing to extinguish the fire.

Sly then stopped and looked straight up at the sky. The peaceful night sky was now disrupted by the smoke, which blotted out many of the stars above.

Sly looked back down and ruffled his hair in pure fury and frustration once again.

"Oh, Penelope! Penelope…"

At long last, Murray lifted his head and turned to Sly.

"Sly…"

"ARGH!" Sly roared out. "THAT…IS…IT."

This outburst caused both Bentley and Murray to look at Sly with stunned expressions.

"That's IT. We're not sitting around here anymore. They know we're here, and this is their warning."

"So they DID see the RC chopper! Confound it! How did we not notice them spotting us?"

"Because they pretended! They pretended to not notice us! It's the only explanation! Don't you get it? They knew we were coming! They knew all along! They must have…And now they've gone and taken away our one and only mode of transportation, along with all of our communication equipment and the RC vehicles."

"At this point, I'm starting to think that calling Interpol might not have been so bad, even if we were captured." Bentley said as he sniffed and wiped at his nose with a gloved hand.

"Well, we can't now, OK? We have to handle this ourselves."

"So, what do we do?" Murray asked with obvious worry in his voice, looking back and forth between Bentley and Sly.

"They know that we're here…but they didn't take all of us. If they wanted to, they could've easily taken, or killed, us all in one strike. But they didn't. They let us live. I think they're issuing us a challenge."

"You're kidding."

"Besides that, there's still the fact that they have Penelope. We can't just let her rot there. I know that she's still alive. If they wanted to kill her, they…"

Sly's voice trailed off, and he decided to change the subject.

"They clearly want us to come to them. They're using her as bait. They're taunting us. It's like they're _inviting_ us in."

"So? Do we do it?"

"We do what all good guests do. We accept the invitation." After a pause, Sly grinned. "Only we're not good guests, are we? No, we'll handle this like we always have in the past. After all, thieves don't use the front door, do they? They use the back door."

"So, we sneak around the back side of the Volcano or something?" Murray asked.

"Yes. They did this deliberately. They kidnapped Penelope and destroyed our van and most of our equipment. They dealt us a serious blow by doing that. Thus, they expect us to give up and surrender, walking right in there with arms thrown up in surrender. So they'll obviously be watching the front area, in front of the facility, and expect us to emerge there. They won't expect us to sneak in from the old trail we used last time."

"OK. I guess that's a good plan. But do we do it right now?" Bentley asked worriedly. "In the middle of the night?"

Sly paused, looking up at the sky through the clearing in the trees once again, with most of the stars in view still blotted out by the smoke of the slowly-dying fire.

"No. Not now. They probably expect surrender almost immediately after the attack. No. We wait. Tomorrow evening."

"Well, what do we do until then?" Murray asked, glancing back at the van nervously, with slight relief coming over his face when he saw that the flames were dying down somewhat.

"We try to get back to sleep, but I suggest that we post a guard and switch between you and me every two hours."

"Sleep? Get back to sleep?" Bentley asked incredulously. "How can we get any sleep after this?"

"You got any better suggestions?" Sly shot back. "Look, it's barely been five minutes since our whole plan was completely shot down and exploded into flames. We need time to come up with a new plan, and fast. A plan that's effective, will work, and will hopefully go against their expectations. We can't do that now. You're smart, but not smart enough to come up with a plan that fast, and under these circumstances of the immediate aftermath, are you?"

Bentley opened his mouth to speak, then slowly closed it.

"Fine."

"Good." Sly turned to Murray. "Murray, grab the guns and take the first shift."

"OK…" Murray said half-heartedly, still staring in despair at the destroyed van, even as he lazily pulled himself to his feet and picked up both weapons.

As Bentley turned and went back to his now empty tent, and Murray sat down in front of his with both guns in his hands, Sly turned and started to head back to his own tent. As he did, he slowly turned around and looked back at the van one final time. By now, the fire was almost completely gone, with smoke taking it over. It was a good thing that it died quickly, since they had no available extinguishers to put it out themselves.

Regardless, Sly couldn't help but wonder. Would all of their plans and hopes for the outcome of this situation become just like their van?

Sly turned and headed into his tent, not sure of the answer himself.

**To be continued…**


	17. Approach

Approach

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 7:57 P.M…_

Vlotho sat in his chair, hands on the desk, grinning at the struggling mouse tied up in the chair in front of him.

"Let me go, you beasts!"

"Oh, that's not a nice way to address your hosts. Don't you know any manners?"

"You'll regret this! Bentley, Sly, and Murray are gonna come rescue me!"

"Oh, but my dear…" Vlotho leaned closer. "That's _exactly_ what we want."

"Don't underestimate them! They've got all kinds of weapons on them! They'll sneak in here right under your noses!"

"I'm afraid that's not possible. You see, we've been monitoring you and your friends ever since your arrival almost two days ago. Watching you like bugs. I honestly can't believe that you spent almost a full 24 hours there in that clearing doing practically nothing, trying to come up with various plans of attack and methods of approach, and then returned to doing nothing after your fancy little gadget returned." He leaned back. "You people are pathetic."

"You're gonna regret this! I don't even know who you are, but I already hate you more than anyone I've ever hated before!"

"So feisty. I don't approve of your attitude, little girl. We'll have to put you in the corner to teach you a lesson. Grant."

"Yes, sir." The Colonel replied from across the room.

"Take her to the cell."

"Yes, sir." The Colonel repeated. He started advancing towards Penelope.

Vlotho leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk.

"I hardly know anything about you, either, little girl. All I know, and need to know, is that you are affiliated with the Cooper Gang. That already has sealed your fate. You shall be perfect bait for the person that I really want."

Penelope's eyes widened.

"I'm…bait?"

"Precisely. Did you not hear me when I said that I wanted for your friends to come here? You must be a rather terrible listener."

Penelope was in shock, unable to cope that she was being used to lure her friends to their deaths.

Just then, she heard the Colonel's voice.

"Alright, let's go."

He lifted her up out of her chair, yanking her to her feet, hands still tied behind her back, and led her out of the room back towards the elevator.

_No…Bentley…_

Grant led her to the elevator and started down, leaving Vlotho and Hans alone once again.

He sighed and shook his head.

"Such a shame that a perky young girl like her must die so young."

He then checked his watch. It was now 8:00 P.M. Two and a half hours remained.

Vlotho leaned over to the intercom speaker on his desk. He pressed the large button next to the speaker and leaned in close.

"Attention, all personnel! Attention, all personnel! This is Commander Maximilian Vlotho. In exactly two and a half hours, the launch shall commence. In two hours, at 22:00, you shall all suit up in full dress uniforms, arm yourselves with as many weapons as you can, all fully loaded, and report to the main hangar to fall into formation. That is all."

He released the button and eased back into the chair, folding his hands.

"Soon. Very soon. Oh, patience is a virtue."

…

_9:17 P.M…_

The three of them stood at the edge of the forest, looking down into the valley. From where they stood, the facility was almost completely obscured by the massive Volcano. The only buildings that were still visible were the single, lone building way in the distance, and the building at the top of the crater. There was no movement besides that.

"OK, so what's the plan?" Murray asked as he finished tying one end of a long rope around a large metal stake in the ground.

"I'll head down there along this back route." Sly said. "I'll use the old Volcano path from last time." As he said this, he gestured at the familiar pool of lava at the base of the Volcano, with the single rock path running along it. It seemed completely unchanged, even right down to the smashed metal gate at the entrance to the path.

Both Murray and Bentley nodded their confirmation.

"Due to your reconnaissance, Bentley, we've concluded that that path is obviously abandoned and is completely unused. It's like the back door of the Volcano. I'll use the remains and various rock formations as cover. Once I get closer to the more active areas, I'll use my Shadow Power move to remain undetected for short periods of time. I'll have this…" He held up his pistol in one hand. "…and this." He held up the Cane in the other. "I'll have my communicator in. It will be strict radio silence, with the sole exception of a very brief, very quiet update from me every 5 minutes. If I take even 10 seconds longer than 5 minutes to update you, then you know that something's gone wrong. When I sound the alarm, by pressing the button on my communicator three times, then that means that it's safe for you guys to enter and come to my position. You said that you can track the communicator on a small radar system, right?" He directed the question at Bentley.

In return, Bentley brushed his gloved hand over a small, green screen on the right armrest of his chair.

"Right here. We can follow wherever you go as long as your communicator is in place."

"Excellent."

"Wait just a minute." Murray interrupted, prompting both Bentley and Sly to turn and look at him curiously.

"If you can track the communicators in our ears, then how come you can't just use that to find Penelope?"

"I already tried. For some reason, the signal in hers has gone completely dead. But that doesn't mean anything more than that her communicator probably fell out of her ear and was stepped on or something."

"Right." Sly agreed.

"And, in case anything goes wrong and we need to return to this spot," Bentley gestured at the stake, "here's a small device that sends an emergency signal to all of our communicators simultaneously." Bentley pulled out a small, dark metal box with an antenna on top and a single red button in the middle. He placed it on the ground carefully, leaning it against the stake. "In case we get separated, we can report back here and set off the signal to alert the others."

"Nice work, Bentley." Sly commented. He then turned back to Murray. "Murray, have your shotgun and rifle ready. Bentley, you be ready, too."

"Gotcha."

"Roger."

"OK. I'll head down and sneak my way in. Hopefully, I can find out either where Penelope is, or what exactly is going on in that place."

"The first one is more important to us at this point." Bentley stated firmly. "If we have Penelope, we don't have to stay here any longer. We can just leave and come back later with Interpol alongside us."

"Understood. But let's just take this one step at a time, OK?"

Bentley paused, then slowly nodded. "Fine."

"OK. I'm heading down."

Sly stood aside from his two friends and stepped back from the edge of the cliff. He then took a running jump and leapt off the edge of the cliff, flipping forward once, then fell down at an incline. He waited until the last moment, then quickly deployed his paraglide. His descent was abruptly halted as he jerked up once, the wind catching the paraglide and hoisting him up briefly, before he started gliding down. After about four seconds, he touched down safely. He quickly released the paraglide and crumpled it up into a ball, stuffing it back into his backpack. He continued on towards the Volcano. He looked back up at the massive cliff face towering up above him from behind, and could barely see Bentley and Murray at the top. The latter was already grabbing the long, thick coil of rope and tossing it over the edge of the cliff. Sly watched as it unfurled like a massive snake, falling further and further down along the cliff wall. For a few moments, he wondered whether or not it would actually reach the bottom and cover the entire height of the cliff wall. Sure enough, it did with barely a foot between the ground and the tip of the rope. With a sigh of relief, he turned and looked back at where he was going.

As he moved closer to the lava pool, he found that his conscience was perfectly divided into two sides, both fiercely screaming at each other as his body moved along, almost against his own will.

"_What are you doing? What the HELL are you doing? You're running right into that base? Who do you think you are? Superman?"_

"_Murray was right. You've faced enemies of these numbers before. You can do it."_

"_Not as armed to the teeth as these guys are. They're all built, armed, and probably even trained, like Terminators. If that last guy was anything to go by…"_

He reached the lava pool. He stopped at the edge of it and looked down. The lava was still boiling below, steam rising from it. He looked at the long rock path going across the pool, alongside the Volcano, and into the familiar cave.

He turned and headed to the right, moving along the edge of the lava pool towards the ruined gate. He moved around the tower of rock on one side and onto the path. He stood below the huge gate, staring up at it for a moment. Dark, terrible memories seared through his mind as he looked up at the small duplicate of Clockwerk's face at the top of the gate. Those furrowed eyebrows…those yellow eyes…

"_See that? Do you see that? That's a symbol of your single worst enemy. The enemy who killed your father, and almost killed you on several occasions. That nightmare from the night before…It clearly depicted Clockwerk. Don't you get it? Unlike the last two, that nightmare wasn't focusing on past events. It was a new event, one you've never been through before. Don't you get it? It's foreshadowing the future! Not a good future, either. And heading into this Volcano will only seal your encounter with that future."_

"_You can't just give up. Sly Cooper doesn't give up."_

"_Sly Cooper doesn't commit suicide, either."_

Shaking it off, Sly looked back at the path and ran through the gate. He ran down along the path, looking back up to the right at the Volcano towering up above him. He noticed the large gap in the crater above, where the Death Ray was last time. He remembered the multiple boulders that had been sent rolling down towards them by that Ray's powerful laser. Those dozens of screeching, diving Robo-Falcons flying overhead. Those hundreds of mines that had to be blown away.

Then, finally, he made it to the cave at the other side.

"_It's not suicide. Besides, you can't just leave. There's something wrong with that place. Horribly wrong. All of the radioactivity…"_

"_That makes it just as dangerous, if not more so. That Volcano has been nothing but trouble. Nothing but…Nothing…"_

He pressed down on the communicator in his left ear and whispered. "First update: Have made it to the end of the path at the base of the Volcano. Now heading into the cave. Out."

He headed into the dark cave, remembering how their late van had barely managed to make it through the first time, and how he himself had almost been killed when he was on top of the van as it went under. There were no lights of any kind inside the cave, but the natural orange light from the glowing lava provided enough illumination. He headed along the wall, then turned left, onto the narrow path leading to the massive, round, rock platform in the middle of the lava. He remembered all of the massive lava slugs that had attacked them here as they attempted to grab the fallen computers. At the other end was the second metal door, wide open. One half of the door had been blown halfway off its hinges and hung there limply, while the other was still intact, aside from some scorch marks.

"_You beat the Volcano once before, you can do it again! It's not like…_he_ is back. Perhaps he was just a representation of the Volcano itself. After all, it was where he originated from."_

"_Even if Clockwerk isn't back, that means that I could be facing a whole new enemy. Unlike anyone, or anything, I've ever faced before."_

Sly headed through the door and into the old control room. This was the first location he had passed through here at the Volcano that was drastically different. All of the machinery and electronics from last time were gone. The several mechanical crane arms were gone. The overhead lights were gone. The spinning gears were gone. The ramp leading up to the second level had broken away and fallen into the lava, and the few computer monitors that had been up there were missing as well. Only one of the chairs still remained, and the other two were missing. Part of the booby-trapped tiled floor in the middle of the room – mostly the right side – had broken away and fallen into the lava as well.

As Sly approached the tiles, he remembered the booby-trap. Thinking quickly, he kneeled down and unbuckled the strap of the red pouch on his left leg. He stepped back, then tossed the small pouch onto the tile. It fluttered down and landed.

Nothing.

Sly took a cautious step onto the tile, pausing as his foot came down. Still nothing. He started walking along slowly, bending down to retrieve his leg pouch and reattach it before continuing on. He hugged the left side of the tiled platform, staying away from the half that had broken off. As he approached the middle, he could hear the platform start to really creak and groan under his weight. He stopped in the middle of his stride, pausing and listening to the metal beneath him.

There was another long groan. Then silence.

"_Your friends."_

"_What about my friends?" _

"_They came with you."_

"_So?"_

"_Your friends…all three of them. They chose to come with you. They could've just as easily said no. They could've just as easily let you embark on this quest for revenge all by yourself. But they didn't. They all chose to come. They all chose to leave behind their homes, and join you on this trek that they all knew full well could end all of their lives."_

He took a few more long steps and reached the other side. He stopped, now face-to-face with the all-too-familiar gas chamber. Seeing that round, white pedestal in the middle, he was reminded briefly of his late wife. Standing there, contained in the now-absent glass tube, about to be gassed to death alongside him. Had it not been for Bentley…

Sly shook it off and took a step forward. He noticed that all of the controls, all of the monitors inside were also completely smashed and ruined. He figured that if the tiled floor's trap didn't work…

He cautiously and slowly stepped inside. Nothing happened.

"_OK, so what good does that prove? That could just make me feel worse, knowing that I could be leading them to their deaths, alongside mine. After all, I already got Penelope kidnapped. In a way, that killed two birds with one stone. Penelope's in their hands, and Bentley's probably a mental wreck because of it."_

Then, in a flash, he dashed through the chamber to the other side, exiting through the wide open doorway out onto the ledge outside.

He paused and pressed the button on his communicator again. "Second update: Have passed through the cave, control room, and out onto the ledge. Am going to start crossing lava river to Volcano wall. Out."

Sly looked down to his left, and saw that the wire he had slid down last time was gone. He stepped back, then took a running jump and leapt off the ledge. He flipped forward once, then deployed his paraglide once again. He floated down across the lava river, moving to the right to the raised area directly ahead of the ledge, rather than the lower area to the left where he had started before, seeing as how the metal pipe leading to it was gone, too. He barely made it.

"_If anything, that just helps you. It make Bentley even more determined to help you, to save the love of his life. And the same goes for Murray, too, with the destruction of his van."_

He returned the paraglide to his backpack and continued. Most of the machinery was completely gone. The lights lining the paths were either gone or broken, the massive spinning gears had stopped moving and were rusting away, and the two massive machines that he had climbed up before were gone. However, since the giant gears were motionless, he jumped onto the one nearest the ramp leading up to the next level and started climbing up it, placing his Cane in his mouth as he ascended the piece of machinery. He made it to the top and jumped onto the first metal ramp. Parts of it had broken away, and what remained was scorched and rusted. He ran up the first ramp and turned a sharp right up the next one, passing by the dark tunnel where the lava slugs had come out of the first time. Nothing emerged from the darkness this time around.

He ran past more broken and destroyed machinery as he raced up the second ramp. Reaching the other side, he leapt up onto the second rusty tunnel, running on top of it to reach the third ramp, and continued along.

"_OK, I guess I can understand Murray's situation. But Bentley's and Penelope's is something else. I mean, their allegiance is stronger at her expense? What if they torture her? Or worse?"_

He looked up at the two large openings in the side of the metal wall that the Robo-Falcons had come from. There were still some remaining shards of glass scattered along the path below the two openings. He then found himself faced with a massive roadblock.

At this point, near the top of the metal ramps, he previously had to climb up one metal pole, do the Ninja Spire jump onto the tops of three small metal smokestacks, then grab onto yet another metal pole at the other end. However, both of the smokestacks had fallen over. One was toppled over towards the right opening, leaning against the slanted metal below the openings, the second one was gone completely, and the third one was broken in half, with the bottom half remaining. Jagged metal lined the top of it.

Sly pressed his communicator. "Third update: Have nearly reached the top of the series of metal ramps just before Volcano's crater. Have reached an area that is now inaccessible due to fallen debris. Will work to find another way up. Out."

"_Penelope believed in you more than your other friends. She understood the pain that you were going through. She understood your fury, your reasons for wanting to press on. She is probably more willing than any of your other friends to help you. But regardless, all three of your friends are still willing to help you."_

"_What do you mean?"_

He looked around at the area before him. Looking down, there was only a drop to the lower levels. He looked up at the metal pipe that he had to climb up first, and saw that it had also toppled over towards the wall that the Robo-Falcons had come out of. The top of it was just barely at the opening closer to him.

He got an idea.

He jumped up, spun around, and landed on the fallen pipe. He ran up along it to the opening, then jumped off and landed at the mouth of the hole. He grabbed onto the wall between this opening and the second, and leaned out to get a good view of what was next. He had to get over to the second opening, but the metal below him was slanted at an angle too high for him to get a good footing on. However, the second smokestack was still lying neatly across the metal, directly between the two openings.

Sly, still holding onto the edge, leaned out and placed one foot on the fallen smokestack. It wobbled briefly, but still ultimately held in place. He then stepped out completely, letting go of the edge and placing both feet on the stack. At the same split second that his other foot touched down, he pressed off again with his foot that was already there, and jumped off the stack to the other opening, making it and grabbing onto the edge for support.

He moved over to the opposite side of the opening. He looked up, and saw that the second metal pipe had also fallen over. Almost too perfectly, it had fallen over the second opening, the top of it on the next level. He stepped back, then jumped out and latched onto the pipe with his Cane. He pulled himself up, placing the Cane back into his mouth, then quickly climbed up and made it to the next level.

"_They came because they knew what a horrible pain, a horrible, agonizing suffering, you were going through. Penelope understood it best, but they all understood it to some degree. They wanted to help you."_

"_So what? They came because they felt sorry for me?"_

He jumped up onto the final ramp leading all the way across to the path that led up to the crater. He passed by another empty tunnel, running past where a set of massive lights had blocked his path before. This time, the path was completely empty, and it was a straight shot to the other end.

He finally made it. He stopped and slowly turned to the left. There was the small path leading up over the final hill and into the crater.

He lifted one foot and started to move towards it. Then he stopped.

He pressed the communicator again.

"Fourth update: Have successfully reached the top of the series of ramps, and am now at the entrance to the crater."

He paused, hand still on his ear, then slowly turned to the right. He saw the abrupt transition from the safe metal path that he was on, and the rough, rocky surface of the Volcano. However, it was not completely steep and impossible to maneuver through. Especially someone of his level of skill.

He looked at the rocky area leading down along the side of the Volcano, then up at the path leading up to the crater.

Finally, he continued. "Have decided not to enter the crater, for fear of it being the perfect set-up for a trap. Am instead going to maneuver slowly around the side of the Volcano by climbing along the rock wall. Out."

"_No. They came because they believed in you. They believed that, whatever troubles you would face along the way, you – as the natural leader that you were born to be – could handle it. And this is the moment where you must prove yourself…to your friends, and to yourself."_

"_To myself…I can't prove me to myself. I've failed. I had my own intentions of coming here and destroying all who were behind this. But now I just can't do it. I've already failed to prove me to myself, how can I possibly prove myself to them?"_

Sly then turned and stepped off the metal path, stepping onto the cold rock. His foot was already slanted, and as he placed his second foot down, he stumbled briefly. He quickly reached out and grabbed a jutting rock above him for support. He turned and looked behind him at the massive drop down into the lava below, but saw that there was a risen rock wall clearly dividing the area full of machinery and the still bare rock part of the Volcano wall.

He then stepped up and over the top of the wall, jumping down about 8 feet onto a ledge below, now safely on the other side. The area with all of the machinery, metal ramps, and pool of lava was behind him. There was nothing at all around him except for rock. Loose rocks and small boulders at the base of the Volcano, rock ledges and jutting rocks above and below him, and the top of the wall, high, high up above him, surrounding the crater and containing its deadly payload of lava.

He sneaked along the first ledge, which was only about 10 feet long, before he reached the end. He jumped up onto another ledge directly above it, only about 2 feet long. He inspected his surroundings. He saw another ledge farther down below, perhaps 15 to 17 feet down. He kneeled down at the edge of the ledge, turned around, and eased himself off the edge of it. He grabbed onto the edge tightly, then looked below him to the right. Along the wall, there were several crevices, barely enough to fit his foot into. He saw another crevice farther below it.

He took a deep breath, then let go of the ledge, dropping down along the cliff face. He pressed one hand against the wall, sliding it down along the wall as he fell, then felt it fall into the top crevice. As it fell in, he latched his fingers further into the crevice and gained a good grip, halting his fall. As he dangled, he pressed feet against the wall and felt around for the crevice below it. Eventually, his right foot found it, and he placed both feet in, giving himself a good position on the cliff wall. He paused for a moment, then pulled his feet out, followed by his hand. He slipped down the wall a little more, until he grabbed hold of the second crevice. By now, the ledge beneath him was only about 8 feet below. He paused for another moment, then released his grip on the second crevice. He dropped down to the next ledge.

This ledge was significantly longer, about 20 feet long. He sneaked along this ledge, hugging the Volcano wall, as he moved closer to rounding the width of the Volcano. He turned and looked back up at where he had first started his trek along the rock. He could no longer see the top of the path leading up to the crater, or any sign of the machine-filled area. He turned and looked back at where he was going, sneaking along the ledge.

He reached the end of the ledge, where another one was higher up and rising up at an angle, with the wall on one side and jagged rocks lining the other, almost like a guard rail. He climbed up onto it and ascended it. There were sudden sharp drops and rises, jagged rocks in the middle of the path, and areas where he had to duck. But nevertheless, he continued up along the much rockier path, moving slightly higher and higher as he moved along.

Eventually, the five minutes were up, and he reported again.

"Fifth update: Am moving along the side of the Volcano, on a ledge with many jagged rocks providing sufficient cover. Am probably about halfway between the back of the Volcano where I started, and the front of the Volcano, where target is. Out."

"_Regardless of whether you can or can't prove yourself, you must make the decision…soon. The storm is coming. Faster and sooner than you might think."_

He continued moving along the rocky, uneven ledge. Finally, he reached the end of it, where it abruptly dropped off to a chasm about 30 feet deep. About 4 feet away was another ledge, perhaps about 6 feet lower and 11 feet long. He stepped back and leapt off the path, landing on the smaller ledge below. When he reached the other side of it, he saw a pile of fairly loose boulders below him, leading down into a rough, jagged, uneven, rocky area surrounding the base of the Volcano, which he had previously been staying above by scaling these ledges. However, a good onceover revealed that there were no more ledges for him to walk along. It was sheer, flat, solid rock wall.

With a sigh, he turned around and lowered himself down the side, hanging with his feet a few feet above the top of the rock pile. He tried to ease himself down even further, but his hands slipped and he tumbled right down onto it. He tried to get decent footing on the top boulder, but he slipped and slid off the side of the boulder, his feet instead planting between two other boulders lower down on the pile. He leaned back and pressed his back up against the top boulder, pausing to catch his breath after the near fall.

After a few seconds, he resumed his work. Carefully inspecting each boulder as he eased down the pile, he made sure to get as secure and solid of a footing as he could, often wedging his feet between two separate boulders in order to keep from either slipping off the side or knocking a boulder out of place.

Finally, he reached the bottom of the pile. Jumping off the last boulder, he landed on a flat patch about two feet wide between several jagged rocks rising up on almost every side. The jagged rocks allowed perfect cover, and he hid between two of them, peering out between them at the area before him.

From this angle, he could finally see certain parts of the facility. While most of the buildings were still hidden below the wall of rock directly between them and him, he could still see the large area that was directly against the Volcano wall, the building slightly darker than the others, and with the glass tube leading up out of it along the wall. In the distance, he could barely see the top of the lone building that stood out by itself. Only now, from this angle on the ground, he realized how tall that building was. It was easily as tall as a 20-story building, at least.

He stood up and slid between rock after rock, squeezing his body between two sharp, jagged rocks, stepping up over low rocks, and ducking underneath overhanging rocks. It was a rough, jagged terrain of sharp, uneven rocks, as if an earthquake had shaken this area of the base of the Volcano. Eventually, he finally made it back to the wall of the Volcano and crouched down behind three stalagmites lined up against each other.

"Sixth update: Have reached the wall of the Volcano at ground level. Am well-hidden among jagged rocks. Can see the lone building and the building that is directly against the Volcano wall. Moving forward, towards target. Out."

He eased up out from his hiding place and moved along the wall, again sidestepping between rocks. Eventually, he was at another flat area, crouching behind a long rock that was about 7 feet long and a foot and a half tall. He peered out from over the top. The facility was now much closer. He could almost hear voices now, scattered and distant, speaking in unmistakable Russian…

He started to stand up.

Then, in an instant, he felt the unmistakable shape and weight of a metal barrel shoved against his back, directly between his shoulder blades. He froze.

"Don't move." The rugged voice behind him spoke in a deep accent.

Sly didn't even breathe. His Cane was still firmly clutched in one hand.

"Drop weapon."

Sly still made no effort to move.

"I said drop weapon!" He repeated in his clearly broken English.

When the unseen presence pressed the barrel even deeper and harder into Sly's back, he complied. He slowly released his grip, and the Cane clattered to the ground, landing slanted against a rock.

"Other weapon. Gun. Drop gun."

Sly's left hand slowly gravitated down towards his holster. He felt another sharp jolt in his back as the barrel pressed harder.

"Make stupid move and die."

Sly's hand paused, then moved towards it again. He grabbed the flap over the holster, tugging it free of the single metal button that held it in place. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle of the pistol. He paused again, his other hand still in the air.

Then, slowly, he lifted the pistol out of the holster just enough so that it was free of the holster. He moved it slightly away, then released it. It also clattered to the ground.

Almost instantly, Sly felt the barrel pull away from his back. The guard reached up and grabbed his right hand first, followed by his left hand, pinning them behind his back. He could hear the metal clanking of handcuffs, and the sounds of the rings locking into place as they clasped over his wrists.

The guard bent down to pick up the pistol and the Cane, placing both in his belt, before pressing the barrel against Sly's back once more.

"Move."

Sly sighed and started to walk forward.

…

Bentley kept his eyes glued to his watch, while Murray tried and failed to spot Sly somewhere along the side of the Volcano. All that they could really see was the old Volcano path, winding over the pool of lava and eventually ending in the old, dark cave.

Just then, Bentley noticed the oddity that he had hoped would never happen.

It had been five minutes. One second after. Two seconds after. Five minutes and three seconds. Five minutes and four…five…six…seven…

Soon, it was six minutes.

Bentley's hand started trembling, and he sighed.

"Murray…it's not looking good." Bentley shook his head. Now, after only six updates. After only half an hour…

"So, what do we do?"

"We wait for his signal." Bentley replied firmly. "He'll know when it's safe for us to move in. You got your guns?"

Murray held up both firearms; the shotgun in his right hand, the rifle in his left hand.

"Locked, loaded, and ready to go."

"We'll wait. He'll give us the signal, eventually."

…

Sly's mind was racing furiously as the single guard led him down the rocky mountainside, the AK-47 still pressed against his back. Eventually, they finally cleared the rough terrain and touched down on short, half-dead grass. The ground here was completely and evenly flat. Perfect foundation for these buildings.

The guard led him around several of the buildings, eventually making it around the side of the facility into the front area, from which they had observed them with the RC chopper. Sly lifted his head up to the right briefly to get a good glimpse of the lone building. It was indeed like a massive hangar; made of solid metal, a curved, sloping roof, windows lining only the very top of the walls, and two small guardhouses – no larger than a common telephone booth – on each side of the massive door on the front of the building. He remembered how loudly and rapidly the Geiger Counter had sounded over that building. He squinted hard. Something was in there…

Another prod from the barrel of the assault rifle pressured him to return his attention to where he was going.

They walked alongside the long, almost endless metal façade of the facility, the metal gleaming with an almost unnatural brilliance, but at the same time, plain dullness.

Many guards who passed by on either side stared at Sly Cooper as they moved by, recognizing the face of their number one enemy. Sly himself, however, couldn't understand the strange looks. Did they know who he was?

Finally, they reached a massive metal door in the side of one of the buildings. The guard, with one hand grabbed the door's handle and twisted it down, pulling back with all his weight to heave the massive door open. Once it was open, the guard ushered Sly in first. The guard followed, pulling the door closed behind him. Sly found himself in a massive, hollow, metal corridor stretching on for a great distance in both directions, about 10 feet high and 15 feet wide. The only features were lone light bulbs, protected by thin metal cages, lining the ceiling every 30 feet or so, and various other doors on either side of the corridor. There were several other members of personnel roaming the halls, weapons in hand or attached to their person in some way.

Sly stopped for a moment. With one quick once-over, he realized how dreadfully familiar this place was…

The guard gestured to the right, and Sly turned and started to head down.

They moved down the dull, monotonous hallway, light bulbs and doors moving past in the same patterns over and over again. Occasionally, however, there were different-looking places. On the left side, at one point, there was a rectangular setback area in the corridor. Lining the back wall of the setback area were metal racks, from floor to ceiling, lined with weapons. All kinds of weapons. From pistols, to rifles, to shotguns, to machine guns. Even grenades and bundles of dynamite were there.

As they continued along, he could hear all kinds of sounds reporting from the other side of the closed doors. From gunshots, to metal clangs, to metallic whirring, to muffled explosions, to rapid shouts or calls in Russian, all kinds of sounds that made this place seem even more mechanical, futuristic, mysterious, and dangerous.

Later on, the doors on the right side of the corridor stopped passing by. Then, suddenly, on the left, the wall moved back about 20 feet, and the floor vanished. Sly found himself now moving on a metal catwalk, the mesh grating below allowing him a limited view below. Across the way, there was another metal catwalk, suspended in mid-air over the pit below them, and another one against the opposite wall, with metal catwalks lining the perpendicular walls leading to it as well. In the area below them were seven long lanes of dirt, all parallel to each other and with a five-foot distance between each other. At the end of each lane were massive piles of sand, at least 10 feet tall and 12 feet wide. In front of each pile of sand was a target in the shape of a man. At the other end of each lane, about 40 feet from the targets, were men with various firearms, taking aim at the targets and firing away. Sly could see bits of the piles of sand blow away as bullets blew through the targets and into the sand behind them. As he moved further along the catwalk, he could see just how scarily accurate most of the men were; one man had hit the head of his target so many times, he had completely blown away all of the paper in the head section of the target. It wasn't just holes in the head; there was no space between the bullet holes.

Finally, after about 60 feet of metal catwalk and listening to weapons fire again and again, they reached the other side, and were back in the regular metal corridor.

After about 6 more minutes, a fork in the hall appeared, with their corridor continuing on straight, and another corridor branching off to the left and slightly curving, with several more doors lining it.

However, in the corridor that continued straight ahead, there were no more doors, and the end of the corridor was about 15 feet away. Set directly in the middle of the end of the corridor was the largest door he had seen so far. It was about 8 feet tall and 7 feet wide. It was slightly darker than the metal that the rest of the building was constructed out of. It had two thick, vertical, metal beams along the front of it, studded with large rivets. There was also a small, cylindrical handle sticking directly out of it just above the regular, vertical handle on the right side and in the middle. The cylindrical handle sticking straight out was set in a long crevice cut into the door, just wide enough for it to fit through. There was also a large dial in the center of the door, like the kind that would be seen on vaults.

The guard approached the door and roughly shoved Sly off to the side, out of the way of the door. As he kept the AK-47 aimed at Sly with one hand, he reached up with his other hand and first grabbed the massive dial, turning it in the clockwise direction numerous times until there was a large thump. He then grabbed the cylindrical handle that stuck straight out and moved it to the left, to the other end of the crevice.

His gun still trained on Sly, he knocked on the huge door three times, then spoke in rapid Russian to someone on the other side. After a brief response, Sly could hear similar sounds from the other side of the thick door. First the sound of another dial turning, and then another handle sliding across. Then the door slowly started to pull back, swinging in away from the two of them. Once it was open completely, the guard gestured into the opening with the barrel of his rifle.

Sly slowly moved forward, sliding through the opening. The Russian followed.

Moving past the huge metal door, Sly glanced to the left, where another guard – a pigeon – stood with his hand cautiously on a pistol holstered at his side. He nodded at the guard behind Sly before he started to push the massive door closed, locking everything back into place, from the dial to the cylindrical handle.

Sly turned to look back, briefly looking down at the floor. When he looked down, he saw that the three of them were on a metal platform, with a grated floor, suspended by pillars at each corner of the platform. He realized that the floor of this area, which surely went much further below the actual surface level, was probably about 100 feet below him. He looked up at the ceiling, but could barely see it, shrouded in darkness and easily about twice has high up as the distance between him and the floor.

He then slowly eased his head down to look straight ahead.

What he saw astonished him beyond comprehensibility.

From a brief, two-second onceover of the chamber, he deduced two things: One was that he was definitely in the much larger, bulkier area of the facility that hugged the Volcano wall. The other was that this massive section was some kind of factory.

All around, everywhere he looked, there were mechanical arms, hydraulic machinery, conveyor belts, large metal vats, personnel (both guards and white-coated scientists), control panels, whirring, buzzing, groaning, beeping, and metal clanking.

Directly ahead of him was a narrow staircase, with grated steps, leading down to a much larger grated platform. On this platform, there were several long control panels, with levers, lights, buttons, and screens dotting it. In front of the long line of control panels was a massive conveyor belt, moving in the direction opposite the door he had come in through. At the starting end of the belt was a massive metal crane with three claws in it, operated by a small cat sitting in the operator's seat, moving the arm back and forth, opening and closing the claws, and so on. The arm moved away from the conveyor belt and reached down into the abyss where the floor was. This crane, easily over 100 feet long, reached its claw down into a massive, circular metal vat full of chunks of metal. As the crane grabbed a piece of metal about the size of Murray, Sly instantly recognized this metal as the Karovanine Bentley had introduced him to. It was unmistakable. The same level of dullness, but brilliance at the same time, its texture, look…

The crane picked up the piece of Karvoanine, lifted up, moved over the front of the conveyor belt, and easily set the piece down on it. It rolled over onto one side, its flatter side, before settling down.

The guard had decided that Sly's observation time was over, and jabbed him with the barrel of his gun once more. Sly was pushed forward, his eyes still locked on the fast conveyor belt. Nevertheless, he instinctively began putting one foot in front of the other and moved down the narrow staircase.

As he descended, he kept his eyes locked on the metal as it continued its journey. It moved down along the conveyor belt, past the control panels and the scientists operating them (none of whom paid any attention to the passing guard or his prisoner.

As they moved along, more platforms started appearing, on either side. Some were even higher up above them, suspended by pillars, and some were below them. It was a massive network, an array of metal platforms and catwalks and the pillars supporting them. On each and every platform, there was at least one member of personnel, and for every member of personnel, there was three times as much machinery, either in mechanical arms, control panels, or some other form of mechanism that Sly could not recognize.

All throughout this factory, Sly kept his eyes glued to that one piece of Karovanine as it traveled down the conveyor belt. The belt moved right along, over the massive gorges between suspended metal platforms. Eventually, it finally reached the end. At the end of the conveyor belt was a large metal box, also suspended in mid-air by four pillars, one at each corner. There was a noticeable orange glow emitting from within, out of an oval-shaped opening that the conveyor belt rolled right into. The conveyor belt stopped, with the piece he was watching being right at the entrance to the box. The orange glow continued. Then, suddenly, the light grew much brighter and sharper for a few moments as a deep roar sounded from inside the box, and he thought that he could even see flames licking out from the entrance, barely touching the piece at the entrance.

Then the belt started up again, and the piece rolled right inside just as Sly himself was parallel with the box. For a moment, the belt continued rolling, the piece now somewhere inside the box. Then it stopped. Then, just as before, the light grew much brighter and flames shot out from the entrance as the roar picked up. Just then, he was on the other side of the box, which was a flat metal side. The only feature in this side was a long, thin, metal pipe sticking out from the back, tilted at an angle of about 30 degrees, ending at a 3-foot tall, 5-foot long, 3-foot wide metal block. Sly looked at the top of the metal block, and could see an outline carved into the metal block. It was a very thin outline, only about three inches thick, but in the clear and unmistakable shape of an egg, which perfectly lined up with the full length and width of the block. The end of the pipe was placed directly at the crevice. He noticed that, inside the outline, there was a slightly lowered section of the block, just below the rest of the block's surface.

After a few more moments, the roaring from inside the box stopped, the light died down, and the flames receded back inside. Then Sly watched as a strange orange liquid emerged from the pipe, dropping down in a thin stream right into the egg-shaped outline in the top of the block. He knew, right off the bat, that this orange liquid was the piece of Karvonanine that he had been keeping an eye on, now melted into liquid form. He watched as the melted metal filled up the indentation completely, filling up the outline, and then filling in the lowered area within the outline, stopping just as it seemed ready to spill over the edge, and not once leaking out from the pipe as it came out. Now there was a glowing, orange egg in the middle of the block. Then, almost instantly, a massive hydraulic press shot down from above, slamming on top of the block and the melted contents. After the loud slam, a massive cloud of steam managed to escape from the small crevice between the two halves of the block now formed before him, as a loud hissing sound emitted from it.

He walked past it against his will as the guard urged him along. Eventually, he quickly turned his head back and looked back at the two pieces of metal, steam and hissing still escaping from it. There was a loud click, and the top part slowly began to recede up again. It moved much more slowly this time, and Sly could see the curved indentation in the underside of the hydraulic press, curved inward and with a series lines criss-crossing it, forming a grid of squares. He could see that the metal in the box was no longer melted and no longer orange; it was back to its gray color, and back to its solid form, but was now molded into the shape of an egg, with matching lines forming squares all over it. At that moment, a large crane from the platform next to the block lifted up and over the block, with a large, flat circle at the end instead of a claw like the last one. It lowered down slowly, hovering over the newly-formed egg, right before an unseen force caused the egg to fly out of its mold and slam up against the circle, magnetized. Here, Sly could now see how it was: It was only half of an egg, and a hollow half. The sides lining the half egg were still extremely thick, about 3 inches thick, and the full side was also about 2 inches thick, but the interior itself was still completely hollow. The arm moved up and over a second conveyor belt, starting right next to the egg mold, and placed the new egg half on the end of it. One of the operators cut the magnetic flow, and the crane lost its grip on the egg, placing it gently on the conveyor belt and lifting up, allowing it to move along. Slightly further down the way, another smaller crane, once again with claws, was in position to grab the sideways egg half and place it upright, with its top pointing towards the ceiling.

The guard ushered Sly forward, and Sly turned to look back at where he was going. But not before turning his head around allowed him to get a quick glimpse of further ahead on the conveyor belt, where dozens upon dozens of matching hollow egg halves were lined up, moving along in rapid succession.

From there, Sly's mind was a complete blank, unable to comprehend what was happening here. He recognized those eggs all too much. Mech Eggs. Dozens, maybe even hundreds, being manufactured here. And that also accounted for the radioactivity earlier. At least from this area of the facility.

As they moved along, there were all kinds of platforms surrounding them, above, below, beside, and so on. At some places, the platform they were on became much larger, with more machinery and equipment and whatnot, and other areas where the platform became a catwalk barely wide enough for two people to walk along side-by-side. There were massive computer consoles, controls, pieces of machinery, cranes, conveyor belts, and on and on and on.

Sly's mind, although distant after recognizing the half of the Mech Egg, did briefly catch the rest of the manufacturing process, coming from a similar setup of one crane lifting up a piece of Karovanine, placing it on a conveyor belt, rolling it into a large melting box, pouring the melted Karovanine into the egg-shaped outline, magnetically lifting the other half out of the molding block, pulling it upright on the second conveyor belt, and then, at a large, flat, square platform at the spot where the two opposite-facing conveyor belts met, crane arms pushing the two completed halves together. A large, magnetic crane then lifted the full Mech Egg off the platform, lifted it up over the metal platform beside the two conveyor belts, to another conveyor belt on the other side, moving in the same direction as the two men. The conveyor belt rolled the completed Mech Egg along until it reached another flat platform, where it rolled off the belt and stopped on the platform. Two smaller magnetic cranes moved up over the platform, attaching to both halves of the Egg, then pulled both halves apart. From the side of the platform opposite the side facing the metal platform Sly was walking on, yet another conveyor belt rolled an all-too familiar helicopter-like robot, significantly larger than the ones he remembered from a certain massive blimp 13 years ago. The conveyor belt rolled the helicopter right onto the platform, and the crane arms moved the two Mech Egg halves over so that they were on each side of the helicopter. The cranes then pushed the halves together, encasing the helicopter in its protective shell, then releasing their magnetic grip. While one arm retreated, the other magnetically attached to the Egg from the top, lifting it up and over the platform to another conveyor belt, placing it on the end and releasing it, letting it roll away.

From there, Sly finally managed to turn away and tried his hardest to ignore the mechanical monstrosity around him.

It seemed like an eternity of listening to his footsteps fall against the metal over and over again, listening to the symphony of sounds coming from all of the machinery around him, and dreading meeting the conductor.

Finally, after rounding a large control board and moving between a control panel and a hydraulic press, they arrived at an elevator set into the wall.

The guard, his gun still aimed at Sly, stretched out one hand and pressed a small white button below a speaker next to the elevator doors. He then released the button.

After a moment, a gruff voice on the other end responded.

"Yes."

"Sir…I have something you would like to see." The guard said, turning and grinning evilly at Sly as he said this.

"Who is this? Is this Colonel Grant?"

"No, sir. Sergeant Bolan."

"All things that are to be brought into my presence are to be first checked by Grant, and then brought to me by Grant and Grant only."

"But sir…this thing very important. Very."

The guard, although slightly nervous at the voice's rebuttal, once again managed to crack a grin at what he must've thought would give him a promotion on the spot.

After a long pause, the voice replied. "Come up."

The elevator doors then slowly opened, and the guard once again gestured for Sly to enter first. He reluctantly did so, and just as the guard stepped inside, the doors slid shut behind him. The guard kept his back to the closed doors, gun pointed at Sly, who backed against the opposite wall of the elevator. He glanced up and saw that the only feature of the elevator's interior was a single light bulb in the center of the ceiling, which gave off a pale light.

After a moment, the elevator started up with a low hum and the usual feeling of slowly rising. It was then that Sly noticed that, on all four sides, the walls were moving down, almost like waterfalls of metal. It was almost impossible to tell, since the walls were almost completely featureless, with the sole exceptions being long strips of reinforced metal every dozen or so feet. He looked around at all walls, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then he looked down, and realized that, instead of an elevator with a metal interior, he was in an elevator constructed purely of glass, since he could see through the floor of the elevator at the bottom of the shaft slowly receding as the elevator moved higher, as well as several cables dangling below and waving back and forth as it moved up. He then looked up and saw a hole at the top of the shaft, where he could see the night sky and several stars slowly approaching.

Eventually, the elevator finally reached the top of the shaft. It emerged from the dark, confining, depressing metal shaft and emerged into the glass half of the shaft. It was then that Sly could finally see the elevator's true form. It was truly a glass box, even with glass doors that must have opened perfectly simultaneously with the metal doors earlier so that Sly didn't notice them.

He watched as the elevator rose up past the roof of the factory, which still appeared very large and bulky from above. As it rose higher, he could see the shorter buildings of the facility stretching out away from the factory, moving out along the valley floor, the grass on one side, and the peninsula of rock from the Volcano's base on the other side. He glanced off to the left, and saw the lone building off in the distance.

He turned around and looked behind him at the cliff wall rising up behind him, the only barrier between the wall and the elevator being the glass tube. It was of sheer, flat rock, with hardly any jutting rocks or crevices. He realized that it must have been neatly and painstakingly carved to make way for this elevator shaft. He could only imagine how long that, as well as the rest of this massive facility, must have taken…

Then, before he knew it, the elevator was surrounded on all sides by metal once again. He looked around frantically, but by the time he had just gotten used to the metal surroundings again, the elevator jerked to a halt.

The guard still had his back to the doors, which Sly expected to open at any time.

However, he heard the sound of doors opening, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from behind him. He spun around, now realizing that there was a set of doors in the opposite wall, too. They were slowly opening, as were their metal counterparts.

_So _that's _why the guard kept his back to the side we came in from._

The doors opened all the way, and this time, Sly didn't wait for the guard's shove. He stepped inside the chamber that rested at the top of the glass tube, directly at the edge of the Volcano's crater.

In comparison to the rest of the facility that he had seen up until now, the interior of this section was rather shocking in its out-of-place luxury and first-class atmosphere. On each side of the door were tall, green saplings in stone pots with intricate carvings in them, depicting certain people and creatures commonly seen in Greek mythology. Hanging from the ceiling overhead was a crystal chandelier, with the rings of crystals getting smaller and smaller from top to bottom, ending with a single, large crystal hanging down from the middle of the chandelier, three rings of crystals above it. In the center of the metal floor was a red carpet, rising up above the floor only very slightly, and with not a single hair out of place. On the walls of metal hung numerous paintings, all perfectly lined up with each other, and not even a single one out of place by even a centimeter. He recognized the work and style of some of the paintings almost instantly from past heists, and was able to match several of the works with their artists, including even Vincent Van Gogh and Leonardo Da Vinci. Just on the other side of the red carpet was a wooden desk, neatly polished and carved from the finest oak. Sitting on the desk was a computer monitor, a lamp, a smaller potted plant, several papers, what appeared to be an intercom speaker, and a brown ashtray.

And sitting at the desk, in a chair of black leather with black armrests and a black swivel stem with six legs with wheels at the end of each leg, was a badger, his feet up on the desk, arms folded in front of him.

His beady eyes, which were looking up at the chandelier a moment ago, slowly lowered down and rested on Sly. His eyes widened, and for a moment, shock seemed to register on his face.

Then the shock slowly turned to happy surprise, which then turned to satisfaction.

"Why, hello there, Mr. Cooper." He spoke up in a voice that was very different from the tough, intimidating voice that Sly had heard over the speaker.

The badger slowly pulled his feet off of the desk, then eased up out of the chair, walking around the desk slowly, one hand lazily brushing along the smooth, polished oak of the desktop. Finally, he came around the desk and stood directly between the red carpet and wooden desk, facing Sly and the guard, who moved further into the chamber, stopping right at the center of the red carpet.

Now that Sly had a complete, unobstructed view of the badger, he did a quick once-over from head to toe. The badger, who was clearly the man in charge of this place, whose voice commanded so much elegance and authority, shockingly enough, was the shortest man in the room. He was barely five feet tall, but was not necessarily overweight. Almost instantly, Sly was reminded of Chief Inspector Henry Barkley, except this man clearly had a more even temper and commanded authority in a manner more subtle than the often red-headed and curt Barkley. He also wore a neat, clean, firmly-pressed black outfit, with a black short-sleeved shirt, black dress pants, a black belt with a shiny gold buckle, and black, steel-toed boots.

Similarly, the badger did a good once-over of his newest unannounced guest. After a couple up-and-down glances, he nodded his head in a gesture not necessarily of approval of acknowledgement, but more of acceptance.

He then turned his beady eyes to the guard who delivered his prisoner to him.

"You, Sergeant…"

"Bolan, sir." The guard reminded him.

"Sergeant Bolan, I hope you realize who this man here is."

"Um…sir?"

"How exactly did you come across this man?"

"He was sneaking around rocky backside of Volcano, sir. Sneaking up on facility from behind. I find him and take weapons."

"Ah. What weapons was this man carrying?" He asked, sounding genuinely inquisitive, but with a slight tone in his voice that barely hinted that he already knew what weapons Sly had on him previously.

The guard lowered his AK-47 briefly to first pull Sly's pistol out of his belt. He tossed it into the air to flip it around and take it by the barrel, handing the handle end to his superior.

The badger slowly reached a hand out and took the weapon, flipping it around in his hand and inspecting it up and down, rubbing the sleek barrel with one finger several times.

"Ah. A Smith & Wesson 9-millimeter. Very nice, Mr. Cooper." The badger then held out his other hand. "And his other weapon? The one that I'm all too familiar with."

The guard then reached for the Cane in his belt, pulled it out slowly and steadily like a sword from a sheath, and took it by the hook, handing it to the badger.

He slowly wrapped his fingers around it one at a time, as if handling the Holy Grail. He slowly gripped the firm, ancient wooden stem, felt the golden hook with the curved, hooked tip, scanning it up and down its full length with his two marbles for eyes.

"Ah. The weapon that has been in your family for centuries, maybe even millennia. What has kept this Cane in such fine condition after all that time? Perhaps we'll never know."

The badger slowly turned around and placed the Cane on top of his desk, sliding it along the smooth wood towards his chair.

He then turned around, ever so slightly raising the pistol still in his hand.

"Mr. Cooper, I don't know what it was you were intending to do, sneaking up on my facility like you apparently were. I don't know what you thought you would do, and I don't know how you thought you would achieve this goal, whatever it was. But I can safely tell you that whatever plan you had has been officially sabotaged, swiftly and neatly. You have failed."

At the last three words, Sly felt that horrible pang of dread, of fear, of worry that accompanied that last word every single time he heard it in this manner. Failure.

"And this is what happens to someone who fails, Mr. Cooper."

The badger then slowly, ever so slowly, raised Sly's own pistol, now firmly gripping the handle, his index finger ever so slowly slipping through the trigger guard and over the trigger itself. Now the barrel was level, parallel with the floor, aimed straight at Sly's head.

The single finger slowly started to apply pressure to the trigger.

In that moment, Sly found himself in a position he had never ever found himself in before, and never would ever again. It was a feeling of hopelessness, of surrender, of giving up. Restrained by this massive guard, in the heart of the enemy territory, and with his own pistol about to end his life, he felt a strange, unusual sense of irony. Irony in the fact that his own weapon was going to kill him, irony at the fact that he was giving up when he had felt more confident than he ever had before.

He closed his eyes and waited.

Finally, the trigger was pulled back as far as it could go. The gun fired, and the bullet found its target.

**To be continued…**


	18. Revelation

Revelation

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 9:56 P.M…_

Sly heard the gunshot. Then he heard a grunt.

It wasn't his.

Sly's eyes shot open, and he saw that the gun had, in the last moment, been turned ever so slightly to the left. He spun around and saw that the bullet had hit the chest of the guard behind and next to him.

There was a ragged, red hole in the guard's black shirt, just to the right of his heart. His eyes widened for a moment, then squinted shut hard in pain. He stumbled backwards, dropping his AK-47, which clattered to the carpet below, making absolutely no sound aside from a slight thump. A brief gasp escaped from him.

In shock, Sly instinctively stepped back, out of the way of the badger's aim. Sly looked back at the badger holding his own pistol, eyes wide with fear.

At that moment, he saw a terrifying transformation. This badger, who, moments earlier, had a sense of formality, neatness, and calmness to him, now turned into a crazed sociopath. Sly could see it in his eyes, now much wider and gleaming with the crazed look of a psycho. A grin slowly spread across his face, and a sinister chuckle could be heard as he took aim and started firing again.

The second shot hit just below the first shot, and the guard stumbled backwards another step before crumbling to the floor below, lying on his back on the red carpet. By now, a thin stream of blood was emerging from both bullet holes, merging into one due to their close proximity to each other, and leaking down the black shirt and onto the red carpet, where they seemed to vanish due to blending in with the fabric so neatly and perfectly.

Sly turned away from the dying guard and back at his clearly demented murderer. Now, the badger was openly laughing maniacally, taking aim at the guard on the floor with various poses. He fired the third shot by twisting the gun around behind his head, holding it upside down and firing just next to his ear. Then he brought it back around and fired the fourth shot with the gun sideways. Then he moved his left arm over the gun and fired the fifth shot from underneath his arm. He then bent backwards slightly and aimed the gun through between his legs, firing a sixth shot. He then tossed the gun to his other hand and fired barely after catching the gun and getting a firm enough grip on it. He then turned around, turning his back to the guard, and aimed over his shoulder, firing blindly behind him. He then spun around three times, eventually stopping to face forward again, and fired the ninth shot. All the while, he was grinning wickedly and laughing evilly.

By now, Sly dared not look back at the helpless guard, knowing that he was already dead and that the sight was not pretty. Besides that, he found himself stupefied at this man's clear and blatantly obvious display of madness.

The smoke from the barrel slowly blowing away, the badger lowered the pistol, letting out a few more lingering laughs, then shook his head.

"That, Sergeant Bolan, is the price you must pay for failing to obey my orders."

He then turned around, still shaking his head and chuckling.

Then, "Oh."

He turned around and looked right at the still-horrified Sly.

"I almost forgot about you." He raised the pistol and aimed right at Sly.

Sly's eyes widened again. This time, he knew that there was no one else in the room for this madman to shoot.

The badger pulled the trigger, only for a slight _click!_ to sound.

It took a moment for Sly to realize it, then relax.

With an amused smile, the badger once again burst into a fit of uncontrollable, psychotic laughter.

"Bwa-hahahahahahaha-HA! You actually fell for that, didn't you? HA! Oh, you're pathetic. This is your own damn weapon, for God's sake! Do you still not know that this particular model of Smith & Wesson only takes a maximum of nine shots per magazine? Or were you simply not counting the amount of times I shot at Sergeant Bolan there?"

Sly, still shaking from the previous display of madness and the near scare of almost being shot at himself, found himself unable to compose his response.

The badger chuckled again, shaking his head and turning around. He walked around the wooden desk, sliding the now-empty pistol along it, where it stopped just in front of his chair. He eased into the black chair and pulled himself closer to the desk.

Once again, Sly saw that amazing and strange transition. It seemed to happen in the moment when the badger had his back to him as he walked back to his chair. The man who sat down so slowly and calmly in his chair, pulling himself closer to the desk and folding his hands on top of the wooden desktop, seemed so cool, calm, and complex compared to the deranged psychopath who had just shot up one of his own guards, who was now lying on the red carpet, blood pouring from all nine wounds, but the carpet itself appearing no different except for a slight wetness.

"Now then, Mr. Cooper. Before we proceed, I would like to introduce you to someone else."

The badger then lifted his head up and looked past Sly. He raised a single hand into the air, and with a single finger, gestured behind Sly. Sly spun around and looked at the dark corner of the room that was just to the left of the elevator door, behind one of the potted saplings. That corner was particularly dark, and Sly couldn't see anyone there.

Then, after a moment, a large coyote emerged from the darkness, wearing a suit similar to the badger. He stepped out, with a firm, strong stance, and folded arms in front of his chest. He glared hard at Sly for a moment, then looked inquisitively at his superior.

Sly turned around sharply and looked back at the badger.

With his raised hand, the badger gestured at the lifeless guard's body, then stuck out his thumb in the hitchhiker sign and flicked it to the right.

Sly turned back.

The coyote nodded, and silently strode over to the body, first stopping to pick up the AK-47 and carefully slip it up the guard's right arm, over his shoulder. He then grabbed the body by both shoulders and dragged it across the carpet to the wall that the badger had gestured at. Sly watched with a confused expression, wondering just what he was doing.

Then, once the coyote had dragged the body up to the metal wall, Sly noticed a large square hatch in the wall, with a vertical handle on the top, almost like a laundry chute. The coyote grabbed the handle and pulled, bringing the hatch out and down, revealing a dark metal chute within.

Then, in one effortless motion, the coyote lifted the body up even higher, and then heaved the body up and into the chute. The legs and waist area hung out of the shaft, so the coyote effortlessly grabbed them and lifted them up, shoving them down the shaft as well. Once completely in the shaft, just barely big enough for the massive guard's body, the body effortlessly slid down and out of view, heading wherever the shaft ended. The coyote nonchalantly brushed himself off, then grabbed the handle once again and lifted the hatch back into place, closing it. He turned back to face the two observers.

"Thank you, Hans." The badger replied. He then gestured down at Sly.

Sly's eyes widened, his fear renewed.

Then he shaped his hand back into the thumbs-up shape, only with the thumb closed down against the other curled-up fingers. He then turned his hand to the left as if starting an ignition.

Hans nodded and advanced towards Sly.

Sly instantly went on the defensive, spinning to face the coyote.

However, the coyote stopped just inches from Sly. Then, in a heartbeat, his hand shot up again, dangling a single bronze key from a small metal key ring, jingling it several times. Sly glanced at the key, then back at the shaft that the guard's body had just been dropped into. He glanced back at the coyote, incredulous at how the coyote had snatched the key off of the guard's belt without Sly noticing.

Sly turned to face the badger, who simply stared right back at him.

"I do assume that you would feel more comfortable with those handcuffs off, wouldn't you?"

Sly decided to just go along with it, not saying anything. He turned around, turning his back to Hans.

In a single, gentle effort, Hans grabbed Sly's wrists, raised them up, and quickly unlocked the handcuffs, pulling them off of his wrists smoothly. Sly brought his arms back around to the front, rubbing his wrists, which felt as if a massive weight had just been lifted off of them.

"Now then, to further extend my hospitality to you, would you care for a seat?" The badger leaned back in his own chair and gestured at the single chair on the other side of the desk, which had four legs, and was shorter, skinnier, and less luxurious than the badger's chair.

"Or would you prefer to stay standing, like big stupid Hans over there?"

Sly turned around and looked at the coyote, who was just retreating to the dark corner from which he had come. He then turned around, resumed a firm stance, folded his arms, and stared hard at Sly, not flinching or breaking his bearing for even an instant.

"When you are standing, you make yourself appear to be a bigger threat, and you seem more likely to attack me at any time. Sitting down, that moron Hans will know that you are cooperating and will not be much trouble."

Sly turned around at the coyote manservant, who didn't seem to react at all to the insult that his superior just said.

Sly looked back with a confused look.

"Oh, yes. I forgot to mention. He's deaf."

Sly's confusion vanished as he understood, but that certainly didn't improve his mood.

"Now, as I was saying, would you prefer to sit down on your own, or do I have to call Hans to _assist_ you into your seat?"

Sly, after a final deep breath, slowly shuffled over to the chair and slowly sat down, his hands tightly gripping the armrests, and leaning back hard against the back of the chair, stiff and unmoving.

Satisfied, the badger folded his hands once again, interlocking his fingers and placing them on top of the desk.

"Now, what shall we talk about?" As he spoke this last sentence, his grin returned, and a cocky tone was easily detectable in his voice.

The cockiness made Sly's cacophony of jumbled feelings – shock, terror, stupor, amazement – all instantly transform into one feeling: Anger.

Despite his anger, Sly managed to keep himself composed and asked the first question on his mind.

"Who are you?"

The badger, after grinning for a moment, replied, "Of course. How could I have forgotten my manners? A host always introduces himself to his guest."

"This isn't a dinner party, pal."

"Quite right. This is indeed a rather serious matter. But, as far as you're concerned, you have all the time in the world. I will answer all your questions over a nice, long cigarette. No, no, what am I thinking? This calls for celebration! I shall have myself a delicious Cuban!"

The badger gleefully leaned to the side and pulled open a drawer in his desk, taking out a thin, shiny metal box with gold plating. He eased himself back into the massive, black, leather chair behind him. It rocked back and forth briefly as he settled back into it. He flipped the case open, revealing a row of neatly-aligned Cuban cigars.

"Ahhh…The finest. Imported straight from Cuba. These weren't cheap, let me tell you. But they were certainly worth it. Would you care for one?"

Sly simply gave him a blank, hard glare as his response.

"Very well, then."

He casually lifted one out, closed the lid, and placed it back in the drawer, sliding it closed. He bit off the end of the cigar, then spit it out onto the floor. Sly briefly shook in disgust at the unsanitary behavior. He placed the cigar back in his mouth and withdrew the golden lighter. He flicked it on once more and held it to the end of the cigar, holding it there for a moment until it was thoroughly lit. He inhaled deeply on it, the other end glowing a bright orange. He savored the sweet flavor before removing it between two fingers and blowing a puff of smoke into the air.

After taking a few longer drags on the cigar and kicking his feet up onto the desk, he continued.

"Now, in response to your first and foremost question: My name is Maximilian Vlotho."

Even through the intense atmosphere, Sly briefly assumed a stunned look at the mention of the name.

"Vlotho…I heard about you. You were the extremist Russian general who committed suicide when the U.S.S.R. officially collapsed. The video went viral worldwide and was huge. You were considered the foremost example of extreme Russian Communists."

"Yes. Of course…that rope was designed to break after a mere three seconds, and it did so right after the video abruptly cut off. But it was apparently enough to convince the world that I was dead. I made sure that it was taped and publicly released, as a statement to the world that the true spirit of the once-great Soviet Union had died. The pathetic country you now call 'Russia' is a sad reflection of what it once was."

"Nice speech. You really should consider running for president."

"These people don't deserve me. My visions and ideals are far too clever, too sophisticated for them to handle."

"OK, I get it. So, you're a crazy Communist Stalin-type who wants to avenge the Soviet Union? You should've been in some of the James Bond movies."

"You think you're funny, don't you? You don't even know the whole story yet."

"Oh?"

Vlotho placed the cigar between his teeth and clasped his hands together in front of his chest before he continued.

"You see, the humble origins of this fine establishment trace all the way back to the prime of the Soviet Union, during what you call the Cold War. I and several others founded an organization called The Order of the Black Axe."

"Some kind of KGB deal?"

"In some ways. More like a Soviet Free Masons. We forever vowed that we would keep the spirit of Communist Russia alive, no matter what happened. We always dreamed of making our glorious comeback. We dreamed of exacting revenge on Germany, the United States, and so many other countries that have ruined us in the past. But not with nuclear power. No, we wanted to look at different kinds of weapons. Weaponry that no one could ever dream of! Weaponry that would be considered out of this world. Perhaps…biological warfare. Of course, we knew that the government, even a government as strong as the Soviet Union, wouldn't dare go near biological weaponry. Especially after Chernobyl. So we kept quiet about our existence. And we turned to rather…unorthodox methods, to achieve the monetary supplies."

"Thievery. Crime."

"If that is what you will call it, then yes. And many of our agents were extremely stealthy and skilled in the ways of the trade, using darkness as their disguise, and working quickly and efficiently. Our men had spread out all across the nation, and even down into southern Asia and eastern Europe, pulling off all sorts of high-level heists, returning with loads of artifacts and money. We soon had enough firearms for an army three times the size of our forces. And we only grew wealthier and wealthier. We had managed to bribe some renowned scientists to start doing research for us. We had high hopes. Everything was running smoothly. But, unfortunately, our timing was terrible. You see, the organization was founded in 1987. What happened four years later?"

"The Soviet Union began to collapse."

"Precisely. My, you are much smarter than I thought, Cooper. I thought your turtle friend was the one with booksmarts?"

"He is. I just happen to know some of this myself."

"I see. Anyway, as I was saying: As the collapse began, our plans started to fail. Some of our men faltered and began abandoning the idea. Only a few. But, nonetheless, it was inevitable that it was going to happen. And, by the end of 1991, it was over. Our organization had no purpose."

"So what happened then?"

"Well, you see, first of all, we did not have to worry about being captured. Like I said, we kept our identity a secret. We knew that our men had committed crimes, but as long as we remained secret, then they would never come after us. We only needed something to, as you would say, 'seal the deal.'"

"The video of your fake suicide."

"Precisely."

"But why? If your organization was kept secret like you said…"

"Our government back then, as you know, was the kind that kept tabs on everyone. Even high-ranking military officials such as myself. A few times, perhaps some of our members were not so subtle as they slid through the back alleys of Moscow for our rare meetings. But, at every single meeting, I made sure to clearly present myself as the leader. Thus, if I was declared dead, any possible secret organization would be declared disbanded. So, with that, we were free. We did not have to worry about investigations leading to our discovery, and we did not have to worry about them capturing our headquarters. We did not have a headquarters, you see; we always remained mobile. We never settled in one set location for too long.

"Thus, we had time to plan our next move. You see, we still had the men, the money, the weapons, and the ideas. We had this perfect group assembled. We were not going to just dispel it just like that. We knew that we had to do something. Something great. Something that would forever change the history of the world as we know it. Finally, we realized."

"Realized what?"

"That we could never change history. Changing history is impossible. So, we settled with the next alternative: _Erasing_ history."

The last two words did not process through Sly's mind. So he simply repeated, "Erasing history."

"Since then, we changed our organization's name. We were no longer the Order of the Black Axe. We are now ORNWOR."

"ORNWOR?"

"The _Or_ganization for the _N_ew _W_orld _O_rder and _R_egime."

"You're insane."

"Am I, Cooper? Am I? No, my dear boy, erasing history is not insane. It is not as hard as you would think. After all, Thomas Paine once said: 'We have it in our power to begin the world over again.'"

"I'm sure that the meaning he had in mind was far different from the meaning you have in mind. I'm sure that Thomas Paine would never want anything to do with the likes of you, either."

"Regardless, Cooper. You still miss the point. There are many men who came before me who have come quite close to accomplishing this goal, and proving Mr. Paine's words right. International conquerors of their time. Genghis Khan. Attila the Hun. Alexander the Great. Napoleon Bonaparte. Adolf Hitler. Each one always coming slightly closer to success than the previous one. Now, I am the next one in line.

"To a certain extent, my chamber here is a perfect representation of that. It is a collection of various pieces of history – specifically, art – spanning centuries, even millennia! It is the ultimate juxtaposition of all the major eras of history, combined into this one place where the means to erase that very history have been engineered. Think of it as lining up all of the damned before they are gunned down by their own children. All of history, represented in here, shall be wiped out forever."

Vlotho eased out of the chair and walked around his desk. Sly, remaining glued to his seat, allowed only his eyes to follow the sinister badger as he walked around the room.

"These pots, for example, containing small saplings, are from the Greek…" He pointed with his cigar to the one on the right of the elevator door, "…and Roman empires." He gestured to the other.

He walked along the wall to the right of the elevator door. "These paintings cover the great Renaissance era, with such ingenious minds as Van Gogh and Da Vinci. Even paintings spanning through the early 20th century…" He gestured to the wall on the left. "…are contained here.

"Even this carpet, in a way, is a kind of art representative of its time. It may seem simple to you, but believe me, it wasn't cheap. This desk…"

He slowly brushed his fingers along the smooth, polished Oak as he strode back to his chair.

"…carved of fine Oak in the mid-1800's." He fell back into the chair. "That chandelier, manufactured in 1924. Even the walls, floor, and ceiling of this chamber are a kind of art. They, like every other structure throughout the rest of the facility, are constructed of the metal that is native only to this very Volcano. A representation of modern day, as you and I sit here right now at this very moment in time; completing the elaborate timeline that I have so delicately set up in my own kind of museum…or, rather, mausoleum. A final burial chamber for death's latest victim: History."

"You talk about destroying over 5,000 years of history as if you're stepping on a bug. It's not as easy as you think."

"Oh, but it _is_, Cooper! You want to know the secret? All it takes is the right kind of firepower. Just the right level of danger, of weaponry, of destruction. We were well aware of this solution when we founded our organization. We needed something…a massive, powerful, devastating weapon that could put the atomic bomb to shame. That would make nuclear weapons look like firecrackers. Tell me something, Cooper: What else happened in the year 1990? What happened in _your_ life in that year?"

Sly paused for a moment before it clicked. "That was the year I defeated Clockwerk…the first time, that is."

"Exactly! Yes! You are exactly right. You see, Cooper, we had been studying Clockwerk for quite some time prior to that incident. We knew, from what little background information there was on that mysterious creature, that it originated in, and was currently hiding somewhere in, Russia. We had no other leads, no other basic information. But we knew, from what few scattered surviving reports from survivors of his fury that there were, hidden away in police files, that this creature was extraordinary. A giant robotic owl that had lived for centuries, and was as large and powerful as he was? We knew that this kind of strength, of power, was exactly what we were looking for. We searched frantically for a potential hideout for that creature. We sent reconnaissance teams out all across Russia, searching the most remote and isolated locations in hopes of finding even a single trace of the mysterious, elusive beast. For two years, we searched that way. Then, in the year 1989, we struck gold.

"It was May of 1989. One of our seven-member teams had found the Volcano. For many years, it had remained completely deserted. No settlements nearby, no established roads for miles, no civilization anywhere. Plus, it was geographically isolated, just as it is today: In a crater-like valley, surrounded by miles of forests. It was perfect. They radioed in and gave us only a few bits of information. I will still never forget it: 'Incredible. Many metal structures built into mountainside. Massive, owl-like tower in summit. Many strange creatures, gleaming in the light like metal, flying around.' Unfortunately, they had not remained subtle enough. Two days later, just a mere day before the majority of our forces arrived at the area, we received the distressed transmission from them. Only frantic screams and cries for help were distinguishable. There were gunshots and explosions in the background, beyond all of the static from the rough and poorly-received message. And…the screeching. The horrible, demonic screeching we could hear. Whether or not it was our men or the beasts, we did not know. When we arrived, they were all gone. There was blood everywhere, wrecked equipment, smashed guns…it looked like a true battlefield. It served as our warning sign, and as the sign that we _definitely_ had found what we were looking for.

"Thus, we made camp several miles away. We set up our temporary headquarters there, in the woods surrounding the Volcano. We kept a strict surveillance of the area from afar, studied it, observed it, analyzed it. We occasionally caught glimpses of…_him_. He was a magnificent creature; a wonder to behold."

"Easy for you to say."

Ignoring Sly, but taking advantage of the interruption to take another long drag on his cigar, the badger continued. "That is how we ended up discovering your little group hiding out in the forests nearby. We figured that, just as we did, anyone who discovered our base would use the forests as cover, believing themselves to be safe. But oh no, we keep a tight watch over the forests around this base, with various methods such as radar, motion sensors, cameras, and even microphones. We were simply lucky that Clockwerk didn't think of using those methods first. So, when we discovered your unannounced presence, we decided to sit back and wait. Due to the microphones, we could hear everything you all said down there. So we had all of our personnel alerted to your presence, and they were ordered to not react to your little toy helicopter, even if they saw it, while it was buzzing around like an insect. Once it was gone, we waited for a little while longer, and then moved in."

"That's how you managed to kidnap Penelope. Where is she? Tell me where she is." Sly's grip on the armrests tightened.

"Be patient, boy. I'll get to that in a bit. Now, as I was saying, we made camp several miles away and managed to take a few pictures of him whenever he was out on his rounds, and from there drew possible schematics of his ingenious and unique design. We tried several times to make our own prototypes, initially testing out the possible structure and design, all the while constructing one large duplicate consisting of all our gathered information put together.

"Of course, just one year later, as we finished our duplicate and prepared to test it out, a sudden invasion took place at the Volcano."

The badger shot a glare at Sly, who replied with a blank stare right back, unafraid to acknowledge his being blamed.

"We dared not get involved, for fear of blowing our cover. But, of course, we were horrified as we watched the great beast be destroyed by a certain arrogant raccoon and his accomplices. At the moment when the great Clockwerk fell into the lava, we instantly mobilized our forces to move in and try to prevent any further damage…but, due to our great distance, we arrived just too late. You and your friends had left. All that was left was that meddling Interpol officer."

Sly perked up at the first mention of Carmelita. Surprisingly enough, his late spouse had slipped from mind over the course of this melodramatic speech. But the final word in the last sentence brought her memory right back, and his bitterness was consumed by a whole new, reformed anger.

"Carmelita…what did you do to her?"

"Of course, we saw a perfect opportunity for us upon seeing the current state of the facility after your group had left. We just needed to get rid of the officer."

Sly balled his hands into fists, tempted to attack the badger were it not for his sudden remembrance of the deaf manservant behind him.

"But, we knew that if she were to suddenly go...'missing,' Interpol forces would swarm in and never leave until they found something. So, we waited for her to fall asleep about 12 hours later, and we easily and silently sliced through her handcuffs, quickly moving out before she awoke. We were surprised at how quickly she had left, apparently robbed of all communication devices she had previously had on her person."

Sly couldn't help but crack a brief mental grin.

"And then, during the brief two-week period in which she had left, we worked fast. We moved in with all of our equipment and weapons, and immediately worked as fast as we could to extract the original Clockwerk from the lava slowly, carefully, and efficiently. As we did that, we planted our prototype in the lava, in nearly the exact same spot and position that the first one had been in. We even severed its head to go the extra mile for authenticity. Every single hole or char mark on the original, we did exactly to our replica so that they could never see the difference."

Sly's eyes widened.

"You…what?"

Vlotho grinned a sinister grin. "Oh, yes, Cooper. You heard me right. We switched the real Clockwerk with a false one, knowing that the authorities would be back, most likely with an entire army behind them. It was a slow process, let me tell you. We had barely managed to get out of the vicinity with the real Clockwerk's remains before they arrived in helicopters and tanks. We were surprised that our decoy survived being in the lava as it was. Of course, Clockwerk's main body wasn't even really in the lava at all, merely resting on top of it. It was his head that was partially submerged. So, as I was saying, they came back, with that fox at the head of their forces. They secured the perimeter, with helicopters and sentries armed to the teeth surrounding any possible entrance or exit. They completely dissected that once-glorious base, searching through all of the wreckage, crumbled and smashed machinery, burned or melted rooms, the sabotaged control room…right up to the remains of what they thought was Clockwerk."

"They took the wrong one. They restored the wrong one. They put the wrong one on display at the Cairo Museum."

"Correct, correct, and correct. After they extracted 'Clockwerk,' they left a fairly large group of personnel behind to inspect the rest of the base. The high levels of radioactivity were cause for them to seal off the perimeter, labeling it dangerous. After barely a week, at least a dozen of their men were suddenly struck down ill. Deathly ill."

"How?"

"It turns out that the metal that Clockwerk and everything else was constructed out of, which was a previously unheard-of substance native only to this Volcano, has a rather dangerous reaction to molten lava. If completely submerged long enough, the metal is completely dissolved and destroyed. But, after it is destroyed, it releases a deadly gas. A highly radioactive gas that is extremely dangerous to all who inhale it or inhale it second-hand from others who are infected. It started a vicious chain reaction, you see. A dozen were hit by it immediately as they inspected the remains of the Death Ray and other materials submerged completely in lava that were made out of that metal. Thus, at least a dozen more were infected by them, and it spread. They soon realized the terrible disease they had on their hands. To avoid spreading it to the outside world, they were forced to…_dispose_ of the already deceased and the alive, but infected, members of the group. The few survivors, among which was your beloved wife, barely even tried to pack up their equipment. They just simply left in quite a hurry. They reported the dangerous potential of the Volcano and its material, and tried to convince the Russian government to drop a bomb directly on the Volcano and completely neutralize it. However, seeing as how this was just a year before the collapse, when the government was still in chaos, they found that the government was more preoccupied with other pressing matters than destroying one little Volcano in eastern Russia. Plus, with Chernobyl still fresh in the Russian mindset, the idea of a voluntary nuclear explosion anywhere didn't sound too pleasant. So, all they were able to accomplish was sealing off the area the best they could – which wasn't very well – and have their only enforcement of this to be a warning. 'Enter premises at your own risk.'"

"That's why Clockwerk, or what they thought was Clockwerk, never spread the same disease. Because it was fake."

"Precisely. So, after that, we began our research and experimentations with complete freedom. Less than a year later, the great Soviet Union collapsed. But, as I mentioned before, we managed to stay strong, and the research and experimentations remained ongoing. The only flaw we faced was the possibility of the truth getting out about our prototype being the wrong one. Especially when we found out about their theft from the Cairo Museum by the KLAWW Gang. Because of that, we never established an official base. We kept all of our equipment – even the Clockwerk itself – in tents or trailers, ready to move out in less than an hour if we needed to.

"But, as our informants found out from stolen confidential police reports, we found that whatever criminal means those crooks used the parts for, they apparently worked just fine. It proved to us that our prototype was a success…and that was merely in pieces. Of course, it was no substitute for the real thing. Our prototype could have never been purely immortal. Would Arpeggio's attempted hypnotic lightshow of hate have actually worked? Of course not!"

"That's how Clockwerk…or, at that time, Clock-_La_, fell apart so easily. And completely disintegrated."

"Right again, my boy. You see, when we had constructed our prototype, our research had led us to believe that Clockwerk had some sort of center. Some kind of omnipotent power source that kept him going. Thus, with our prototype, we developed the Hate Chip. Without it, as you pointed out, our prototype was nothing. We even designed it to wither away should the Chip be destroyed, as a kind of self-destruct system, if you will. When we watched that story unfold on the news, we were actually relieved to find out about the destruction of our prototype. Why, you may ask? Because after that, no one would ever find out that it wasn't the real thing. So, for the last 13 years after that, we've been free to study the original without the fear of the authorities, or anyone, discovering the truth and returning. So, this whole time, we've had the original masterpiece here in our secure facility, which we built here at the base of the Volcano following the incident in 1992. After 2 years, the gas had worn off, and it was perfectly safe to return. We constructed every single building in this massive facility out of the same metal that Clockwerk and his base had been constructed out of. And just as we had hoped, no one has ever come back here. This is the perfect, ideal location: Isolated, deserted, and well-protected with natural barriers, such as the mountains and forests, plus with the still-lingering warning by the government. We've been free to work on our masterpiece, inspired by none other than the original Clockwerk."

"'Inspired by' the _original_ Clockwerk?"

"Well, what do you think we were able to do, boy? The original, as powerful and technologically-advanced as it was, had spent too much time in the lava and had been dealt too much damage by the gunshots. But, despite that, I think it was the severing of the head at the end of your Cane. That did it. Only after the lava worked on its neck, of course. But the bottom line is, it was ruined. Melted, twisted, charred. It didn't work anymore, and never would again. But we were able to study its design, its little tricks and secrets, and completely replicate it."

"You…you can't mean…"

"Oh, yes, my dear boy. I _do_ mean. While the first Clockwerk himself truly was a force to be reckoned with, his relatively small size compromised his true power and advanced technology. We have corrected the mistake, and done the impossible; perfected the perfection. _We have created a Second Clockwerk._"

"You…you couldn't have. I have to see it."

"You want to see it? Very well. It is only customary to grant a dead man his last request."

Sly narrowed his eyes, glowering at the arrogant badger.

The badger casually pulled his feet off of the desk and scooted his chair closer to the desk. He reached for the keyboard and started typing rapidly, his eyes switching between Sly and the computer screen.

After he finished and pressed the "ENTER" button, he pulled his hands back, folded them in front of him once more, kicked his feet up onto the desk again, and nodded behind Sly.

"Enjoy the show."

Sly then heard a low metallic whirring behind him. He turned around in his seat to see a massive flat-screen slowly lowering down from the ceiling. At the same time, the lights in the office dimmed like a movie theatre.

The screen was completely white. Then it turned to static, completely silent as the gray, white, and black covered the whole screen. Then it turned switched to the video.

_/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/_

_The image on the camera was the face of a single scientist; a male fox with square glasses and a slightly echoing voice. He was wearing a white lab coat, gray button-up shirt, matching gray trousers, and black shoes. He was reaching one hand up above camera, turning it on. He then stepped back and briefly adjusted his coat. There was a metal wall behind the scientist, with vertical lines of rivets lining the walls._

"_The time is 22:45. Our master Project, the Second Clockwerk, has been completed. We are beginning our initial field tests now."_

_He then reached out and grabbed the camera on both sides, turning it around slowly to face away from him. As it turned, it passed by two other scientists standing at a long control board and working away, typing, writing on clipboards, and one yelling out a command to workers off-screen in Russian. The camera was now facing out into the middle of what appeared to be a massive hangar, the metal walls now much farther away and stretching high up to an off-camera ceiling. Most of the area at the base of the walls were covered by shadows and impossible to see into clearly. All of the light in the hangar was instead focused on the dead center of the chamber, with every single one of the four massive spotlights – one in each corner of the ceiling – aimed down at that spot._

_Hanging suspended from dozens and dozens of steel cables, raised about 15 feet off the ground, was the machine. It looked exactly like Clockwerk. However, one single scientist was below it, checking on one of the five thick metal rods in the floor, helping to keep the Second Clockwerk suspended, in addition to the cables. With this one, average-sized man right there for comparison, it was easy to see just how large this machine truly was._

_The lone scientist finished inspecting the metal rod. He quickly turned and scuffled away from the massive creation._

_Off-screen, the fox spoke up in thick Russian, his voice resonating on the intercom system within the hangar: "_Весь персонал, ясно полигоне! Весь персонал, ясно полигоне!"

_Subtitles on the bottom of the screen translated: "All personnel, clear the testing area! All personnel, clear the testing area!"_

_The scientist who had been underneath the Second Clockwerk was still moving away from it, and finally made it off-screen._

_He then yelled one final confirmation: "_Есть полигон подальше от всего персонала?"

"_Are all personnel clear of the testing area?"_

_When there was no response, the fox moved back on camera, quickly moving his face into the picture and saying to it in English: "Very well, so we are now prepared to begin our first field test. First is a conventional AIM-9 Sidewinder missile, air-to-air, short-range."_

_The camera panned over to a firing station off to the side, at a good distance from the beast. It was a gray metal apparatus on four wheels, with the raised metal arm suspending the missile. The head was facing straight at the Second Clockwerk. _

_After a few moments of focusing on the missile, and the two scientists who were finishing adjusting the metal arm, the camera turned back to the fox._

"_Alright, so it'll be a standard launch. It's aiming straight for its head."_

_The fox disappeared again, and the camera focused on the Second Clockwerk once more. After reconfirming that all personnel were clear, with the two men at the metal apparatus being the last to leave, he called out:_

"Готово! Цель! Огонь!"

_After shouting out the commonly-used, three-word phrase, the sound registered off-screen. First it was like the sound of a heavily-amplified gunshot; a sharp report as the missile detached. Then the sound of rushing as it rocketed towards its target. There was barely even a brief streak as it shot past, its speed having increased so drastically, it was hard to tell the difference between the missile itself and the white streak behind it._

_Then there was the impact._

_The missile itself instantly disappeared in the massive fireball; a blast of bright orange that briefly made the screen itself flash from the light. It struck dead in the center, just above the sharp, curved beak of the Second Clockwerk. The orange blast consumed the entire head, and some of the area of the body immediately around it. Soon, the orange gave way to thick black smoke, surrounding the head of the Second Clockwerk like a deadly veil. It billowed around, growing slightly larger, its thickness still remaining firm and true._

_Then it started to lift up. It rose higher and higher towards the ceiling, slowly dissolving away and vanishing to reveal what damage it had done._

_There was no damage._

_Not even the slightest dent. Not even the slightest scratch. Not even the slightest black char mark. Not even the slightest hint that anything had touched the surface of the mighty machine. It shone pristine and firm, unwavering even after the impact and the force._

_As the smoke cleared, there was a raising of voices within the hangar that grew louder and more collected. Cheers, applause, and laughs._

_After a few moments, the camera turned back to the fox, who was trying to contain his satisfaction himself, with an obvious grin on his face._

"_Success! Success!" He yelled out the same thing in Russian over the intercom, where he was met with a more collective cheer in response._

"_As you can see, the thick armor remains not only completely resistant to any attack, but also retains its shine and truly brushes off missiles like dust. Now, we shall conduct a similar experiment with a - ."_

_/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/_

The clip was suddenly cut short. It took a few seconds for Sly to register that it was over. His mouth had already fallen open, and his mind gone blank.

"As you can see for yourself, Cooper, we have accomplished what you could have never imagined." Vlotho's voice registered behind him.

Only when Sly realized how uncomfortable his position turned around in the chair was did he finally and slowly turn around to face his captor. Even then, he didn't look directly at the smug badger. His eyes faced down, towards the bottom of the desk, where the floor met the wood.

All Sly could do was mutter, "It's not possible."

"Oh, it's possible. It's already done. It was completed a couple of days ago. It is much, much larger than the original, of course. Its armor is improved and more impenetrable. We have already tested the most advanced forms of Surface-to-Air and Air-to-Air Missiles on it, and found that they don't even begin to dent it. Its endoskeleton is now reinforced, with no patches between the metal bones. If you will, a sort of metal netting between each main rod to prevent there being any empty space, so that any part of the body is as strong as possible. It is also more agile and faster. It is truly the greatest weapon known to mankind. With its numerous heat-seeking, infrared-vision rocket-launchers and machine-guns that can deploy at any moment, it can unleash a barrage on any target, large or small, air or land, man or machine, that is guaranteed to either completely annihilate, or in some other, way severely cripple or disarm the target within seconds. Plus, we have duplicated what the late leader of the KLAWW Gang, Arpeggio, had originally designed. From the bowels of the Second Clockwerk, we can now deploy – between brief intervals – groups of Mech Eggs containing a new and improved version of the Attack Robots, which can now fly just as regularly as the Robo-Falcons, which we have also improved and duplicated an army of."

"Robo-Falcons? You're constructing Robo-Falcons too?" The worry and nervousness in Sly's voice was so much worse now that his voice almost sounded squeaky.

"Yes, we are. I'm aware that the manufacturing area for the Robo-Falcons is farther off the main path leading directly through the factory up to the elevator to my private quarters here. The construction area for the Attack Robots is also, literally, off the beaten path. You probably never saw any of them. But I am sure that you witnessed the manufacturing of several Mech Eggs at least, correct?"

Sly's blank, unbelieving stare was all the answer that Vlotho needed in order to continue.

"All of the excess Mech Eggs, the ones not produced inside the Second Clockwerk, are to be carried along by the Robo-Falcons, one Egg per Falcon, clutched tightly and safely within their talons. Upon dropping the Mech Egg on the intended target, the Mech Egg will automatically explode, thanks to the explosives already set into the metal casing. However, the Attack Robots within will be completely unharmed, due to the reinforced interior of the Egg. Once the explosion settles down, the Attack Robots shall move in. They shall be considerably faster and more maneuverable than the originals. In addition to the 10,000-voltage bolts of electricity that can be shot as far ahead as 50 feet, the Attack Robots are now outfitted with a bullet-proof shell of the metal native to this Volcano, to insure protection against any kind of conventional gunfire, regular fire, or water. However, they also have a special self-destruct feature which – if they find themselves completely outnumbered and necessary to use – they can use to engulf an entire radius of nearly _1,000 feet_ in all directions."

"That much power in such a small thing?"

"You'd be surprised, Cooper. The Robo-Falcons, too, also have that ability, which they can use by deliberately flying head-on into their target; like a kamikaze. But that is only to be used as a last-ditch, final moment weapon. The Robo-Falcons are also equipped with the ability to shoot deadly bolts of electricity out of their mouths. And, don't forget: The Robo-Falcons, Mech Eggs, and Attack Robots are all constructed out of the same metal that the original Clockwerk and the Second Clockwerk are both made out of.

"But do you want to know the real punch line, Cooper? These three magnificent kinds of creations will be unstoppable, not because of their metal shield, not because of their superior weaponry, and not because of their futuristic technology. No, these three machines are designed so that they do not run on electricity, convention fuel, coal, or anything else necessary to power a common machine. These machines run on _solar power_. They draw all energy from the sun. And, even after the sun has set, the collected energy during the day will be enough to keep them operational until the next sunrise, thus making them able to run for 24 hours straight without tiring, overheating, or wearing down."

As Vlotho continued on, Sly's head was spinning. He was still in disbelief from the video. But all of this new information, delivered to him so quickly, suddenly, and plainly, was too much for him to comprehend. So many weapons, in addition to the main one, were now constructed and ready to use, and it had been going on for nearly fifteen years.

"It has been on-going ever since the facility was constructed. As a matter of fact, the factory was one of the very first structures finished of the whole facility, along with my quarters here, and the main hangar that we built to protect the original Clockwerk and the new one, which is that one building out by itself, away from the other buildings. I understand you've taken an interest in that building following your reconnaissance. They are all fully operational and ready to be initiated upon my command. Our plan is to initiate the Second Clockwerk and all of the other weapons exactly 72 hours after the completion of the former. Although, for quite a while, we considered delaying the initiation until only after you and every single one of your accomplices was dead."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? You and your colleagues were the only ones who had any experience with the original Clockwerk. Especially your intelligent friend. The turtle. He had surely taken some schematics, some samples, something that could help you to prepare against the new one. We had hoped to be able to wait the full three days without any interruption or threat. That is why we hired…_him_ to eliminate you all one at a time, and be done long before the initiation."

"'Him'? You mean…that crazy hit man?"

"'That crazy hit man' is the finest in the world. He has been silently working ever since June 6th, when he first killed your wife."

"But after that, it took him five days to catch up to us in LA. It took us barely half a day to get from Paris to LA. Pretty slow, if you ask me."

"Oh, that's merely because you don't know the truth. During that five-day period, he quickly and efficiently eliminated all of the other former members of your gang. King. Lousteau. That mysterious little Koala, I never got his name."

"The Guru? Dimitri? The Panda King? You…you can't be serious."

"Oh, I am."

"But I didn't hear anything about it. Nothing on the news. You think that the deaths of such renowned former criminals would've been instantly covered…"

"That's the magic of this man. That's how silently and efficiently he worked. Well, with the obvious exception of your wife. He probably wanted to start off with a bang and then work swiftly and quietly; I don't know. There's no telling what that man has in mind, but it always involves finishing his job. After eliminating those first four, he had only you four left to go. It is pure circumstance that you and your three friends managed to escape him this long."

"But why take all of this time before doing it? You waited fifteen years before sending a man out to kill us. Why?"

"You think I _willingly_ waited all those years? Oh, no. You see, we realized the threat that you and your little gang posed to us as early as 1992, after the destruction of our duplicate. We spent 13 years searching for a man to do the job, but all of them either requested too much money, had other customers who had got to them first, were unable to acquire the necessary weaponry and transportation, or would stop short of wetting their pants at the very mention of the name Sly Cooper. We were lucky enough to finally find several shady leads that eventually brought us to this man. We finally got to meet face-to-face on June 4th, just two short days before he began, and I knew, instantly, at that moment, that this was the man for the job. The man with no name. The man with no voice. The man with no home. The man who knows nothing except the business of assassination. But, rest assured, wherever he is, he is following you right now. Chances are, he'll have followed your trail right back to this facility. And let me tell you something else, Cooper."

The badger stood up and placed his hands on the desk, leaning over towards Sly. Several loose pieces of ash fell from the glowing end of the cigar onto the fine polished wood.

"I don't know what you expected to do upon arriving here, but you have crossed the line. You are in dangerous waters now. Even if our man doesn't catch up to you, I'll finish you off personally. I don't know where your two friends are right now, but I guarantee that they are in just as much danger as you are."

Vlotho slowly eased back into the chair, and took another long drag on the cigar before pulling it out between two fingers once more.

"However, I must commend you on arriving at such a perfect time. Your arrival has come just short of an hour before we were to begin and launch the new Clockwerk."

"But I thought you just said that you wanted to wait until me and my friends were dead before you launched it."

"I said that I was considering doing that. But I eventually concluded that our man was taking too long, and that, with our project finally completed, we could not afford to wait any longer. Waiting with that fully-completed masterpiece just sitting there, it was far too dangerous. We had to just get it up and off the ground as soon as we could, with the army of Robo-Falcons and Mech Eggs following it, as well as all of our henchmen mobilizing after it with every single weapon and vehicle we have here." Yes, the initiation is to take place in…"

Vlotho placed the cigar back in his mouth to look at his watch.

"…23 minutes. And I must say, it truly is a shame that you will not be able to witness it."

Just then, the elevator sounded with a ding. Vlotho looked up past Sly, and Sly turned around to follow his gaze. Sly noticed how Hans, still standing in the far corner of the room, didn't react to the sound at all. He kept his beady eyes locked on Sly.

The elevator doors slowly creaked open, revealing a tall, well-built German Shepherd in an elegant uniform.

"Yes, Colonel Grant?"

The Colonel stepped forward into the room, stopping a few feet from the chair Sly sat in, and bowed slightly towards the Commander before he spoke. "Commander. All personnel have reported to the main hangar as you requested, sir."

"All of them, Grant?"

"All soldiers and other armed personnel, as well as a majority of the scientists and factory workers. They are all standing in formation right now, sir. Only the one man you requested – Knox – is still on-duty, guarding the door to the factory, sir."

As Grant gave his fairly long response, Sly digested this new information, and realized the perfect opportunity, now that the facility was almost completely cleared out. He took advantage of the distraction on Vlotho's part to ever so briefly reach up and scratch the back of his neck in what appeared to be nervousness. However, as he did so, he moved his smallest finger over to his ear, and pressed the communicator three times.

"Very good, Grant. Head down there yourself and put the men at ease until I arrive."

"Yes, sir."

The dog bowed once more, then did a sharp about face and headed back into the elevator.

Once the dog was gone, a grin slowly spread across Vlotho's face, and he chuckled.

"Well, Cooper, I must be going now. My men await me. They are preparing to meet their god in all of his full glory. Today…Operation: The Third Day shall commence."

"Operation: The Third Day? _That's_ what you're calling it? Why?"

Vlotho chuckled once more and removed the cigar from his mouth again. He slowly stood up and turned around, facing the massive glass wall behind him. He paused, then slowly approached it. As he walked towards it, he started softly reciting:

"The book of Matthew, chapter 27, verses 63 to 64: "'_After three days I will rise again.' So give the order for the tomb to be made secure until the third day."_

Sly, with a now-amused expression, chuckled.

"Oh, so _now _you're actually comparing Clockwerk to Jesus. What, are you playing God now?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"You are nuts. I've said it before, but I know now that you're truly insane."

"Am I, boy? Am I?"

Vlotho spun around on his heels and walked back up to the desk. He slammed his palms down on the wood and leaned across it, towards Sly.

"Think about it. A select few men in history have come since Him who have proven to be amazing leaders, powerful conquerors, and true men of might. And each one who came after the last came slightly closer to realizing his goal, and conquering the world. Attila the Hun, Alexander the Great, Adolf Hitler…and now it's my turn. No one is going to stop me this time. I have lived and died many times before. Each time, I came closer and closer. Now, no more reaching for the stars. Now, I finally realize my dream. Now, the true Third Day begins."

Vlotho stopped, then looked back down at his watch.

"17 minutes now. I must be going."

"So that's why you wanted to wait for exactly 72 hours after its completion? Because of the whole story of three days after the Crucifixion?"

"More or less. Upon receiving the news that the second Clockwerk was all ready to go, I began my exactly 72-hour-long waiting period, so that we may truly re-fulfill the old prophecy by bringing him back to life three days after his period of being between death and between life began. It was 10:30 P.M, Saturday, the eleventh of the sixth month, in the year of our Lord 2005, when it was confirmed that he was all ready to go. Now, 72 hours later, at 10:30 P.M., Tuesday, the fourteenth of the sixth month, in the year of our Lord 2005, he shall finally rise again. And I shall be the man behind it."

"Wait." Sly interrupted.

"Yes?" Vlotho cracked a slight smile.

"One more thing. Where is she?"

"'She?' Ah, yes! Your little mouse friend. How could I have forgotten? Must be the excitement of having a new guest, and knowing that my plan is about to finally be executed. Of course, how rude of me to leave a guest hanging like so. That actually reminds me: That little film I had you watch just now? It was part of a double feature! Consider this the after show."

Sly forced himself to turn around again and look at the massive screen. Vlotho raised the remote and pressed the button again.

As the screen turned to static once more, Vlotho added: "Oh, I should inform you of this now: Unlike the previous film, this one is _live_!"

Then, suddenly, all that Sly could see on the screen was a large, dull metal room. All walls were plain, bare, and forbidding, the only features on the walls being large air vents directly in the middle of each wall. In the center of the room was a metal chair, with a familiar slumped figure tied into it. Standing next to the chair, slightly leaning over the person tied to it, was a large, muscular raccoon.

Sly shot straight up out of his chair, standing rigidly as he instantly recognized the figure tied to the chair.

Vlotho then brought the remote to his mouth, where there was a small speaker at the end. He pressed a red button above it and held it down to speak into it.

"Belyeau!"

The raccoon straightened up, looking around slightly, as if unsure to where the voice came from. Nevertheless, he straightened up, standing at rigid attention, and called out:

"Yes, sir."

"Belyeau, you may not be able to see him right now, but in case you have not yet heard, I can inform you that we now have another captive."

"Excellent, sir."

"Yes, quite. Because this captive is none other than Sly Cooper himself."

The raccoon noticeably had a look of shock on his face for a moment, but shook it off and quickly recovered.

"Excellent, sir." He repeated.

"And, while I do firmly believe in 'The more, the merrier,' I also firmly believe that having too many captives at once can be such a hassle. And, clearly, Sly Cooper himself is of much more significance to us, and is a higher priority target than that mouse. Belyeau…It is time. Clear the premises, and report to the control room."

"Yes, sir." The raccoon replied. He then pivoted sharply and walked off-screen.

After a moment, the view on the screen changed. The image of the still figure tied to the chair was pushed to the right, until it covered only half of the screen. The left half of the screen was still static. After a moment, it showed the inside of a room with several monitors and one long console, with various switches and readouts on it. There were two technicians seated in front of the console, with the tall raccoon, Belyeau, standing behind them. Most of the wall above the console was a glass window, looking through to the room where the figure was tied to the chair.

At that moment, Sly noticed the figure in the chair slowly raise its head. He focused on the right side of the screen, where he could see it clearly.

It was none other than Penelope. Sly could make out several noticeably bruises and cuts on her face and arms. One of the lenses of her glasses was shattered, and her hair was disheveled.

"…Penelope…"

At that moment, her mouth started moving slowly.

Seeing this, Vlotho's grin grew. "Belyeau, activate the microphones, if you please. Let her have her final words."

Also out of the slightest and shallowest of courtesy in this situation, Vlotho held down the red button and moved it closer to Sly, allowing him to communicate directly with Penelope.

On the left side of the screen, the raccoon once again sounded off with a "Yes, sir," before relaying the same order to one of the technicians.

Sly watched one of the technicians flip a small switch. Immediately, the movements of her mouth on the screen matched words that he could suddenly hear.

"…Sl…Sly…Is…that…?"

"Penelope!" Sly called out.

"Sly…Whe…Where's…Bentley…"

"Bentley's fine, Penelope. He's just fine." Sly said, doing anything he could to keep her calm.

"Sly…They…What are…they…"

"They won't do anything to you, Penelope!" Sly spun around and angrily faced Vlotho. "Damn it, you will NOT touch her! If you do anything to her, I'll…"

"Belyeau! Prepare to turn on…the gas."

Sly's anger died, and was instantly replaced with desperation. "NO! Don't kill her! Look, I…I can give you anything you want! I'll do anything! Just don't kill her! Don't! What-What do you want? Money?"

Vlotho, who was just preparing to speak the final command into the remote, paused at this statement. He released the button…

…and then burst into a fit of laughter.

Sly could only sit and watch, his heart racing, palms sweating, and confusion rising as the badger simply laughed and laughed in front of him. His anger started to return.

Eventually, the laughter stopped and Vlotho managed to continue. "Re-really? Really, Cooper? Really? Did you JUST offer me…MONEY? I just laid out all of my plans for complete world domination in front of you, and you think some MONEY will change my mind about killing your little friend? Do you consider money greater than complete control over the entire world? My, you truly are lost."

"Listen to me, you sick freak! If you kill her, I swear to God you'll pay for it! Do you hear me?"

"Go ahead, Cooper. Leap over this desk and attack me. Hans will be on you in an instant."

Sly angrily spun around again to face the deaf henchman. However, the screen completely blocked Sly's view of the corner where Hans had been, and he had no idea where Hans was in the room. Sly then looked directly at the screen again.

_I can't let them do this. I can't…_

"Belyeau!" Vlotho barked.

"Yes, sir."

"Turn on the-."

Suddenly, with a yell, Sly spun around again and threw himself forward, sliding over the wooden table, upsetting the lamp, computer, and one potted plant, and tackled Vlotho.

The remote flew out of the badger's hands, and he started to fall backwards out of his chair as Sly threw himself onto him, clasping his hands around Vlotho's neck.

The chair toppled over, and both were on the floor. Sly clenched even tighter, as hard as he could, hoping to strangle the life out of the badger. Vlotho grabbed onto Sly's wrists, hoping to clench even harder to cut off the circulation to Sly's hands, grunting several times.

However, before either of them could gain the advantage over the other, a large figure suddenly appeared next to them. All that Sly felt was a sudden, python-like grip take hold of him by the back of his shirt and the back of his neck. Then, with unbelievable speed, he was yanked up into the air, lifted over the desk, and thrown down against the floor.

Before he even had time to lift up his head, he felt the powerful grip on the back of his neck once more, yanking him up off the floor and forcing him to stand on wobbly legs, turned to face the man he just attacked.

Vlotho did not appear happy, to say the least, and replied with an angry glare and a solid left hook. At that moment, Hans released Sly, allowing the impact to send him stumbling backwards and back into the chair, blood dripping down from his mouth.

"Now _that_ was just plain rude, boy. Don't you know how to behave as a guest?"

Sly was gnashing his teeth, breathing heavily, and barely able to contain his anger.

"Now you shall pay. You had the option of watching this lovely home movie before, but now you must be _forced_ to watch it."

Just then, Sly felt the grip for a third time, this time one wrapping around his neck while the other grabbed the back of his head. He was yanked out of his chair again, and the hand on his head grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look directly at the screen.

Vlotho, after brushing himself off, picked the remote up off the floor.

"Sorry about that, Belyeau. As I was saying…turn on the gas."

"Yes, sir." Belyeau replied once again.

Sly was forced to watch in absolute horror as the raccoon called Belyeau relayed Vlotho's orders to the two technicians. They started flipping various little switches, each one a switch closer to watching Penelope die. Each flip, each click, each turn, was even more agonizing than the last, and it seemed like an eternity of the same sounds repeating over and over again. Sly could not drown out those horrible sounds, even as he looked straight at Penelope's face. She was struggling just to keep her head up, trying to look around the room. She was in worse shape than Sly had ever seen before. It pained him to see her like this. He could only imagine how Bentley would be feeling right now…

Just then, Penelope finally located the camera in the room. With all the strength she had left, she raised her head and looked straight into it, as if looking straight into Sly's eyes. The look in her eyes…that distant, pained, despondent look, through the blood and broken glasses…The image burned itself into Sly's mind in an instant, and he found himself at a complete loss of words, movements, or thoughts at the very sight of her.

Then, finally, the switching and the clicking stopped. Sly's eyes widened. The two technicians slowly leaned back in their chairs, both folding their hands together and placing them in their laps in almost perfect unison. Belyeau straightened up and followed their gazes out the window to watch the hostage's demise.

_No…_

Just then, another sound could be heard. An even worse sound than any of the switches.

A hissing.

Sly could only stare in horror as the hissing sounded with no visible counterpart. Then, slowly, on the right side of the screen, he could see a light green veil slowly emerge from the vents placed perfectly in each wall of the room. Soon, it was visible through the window on the left side of the screen as well. All three different angles allowed it to completely swallow up any spare, clean space and converge on Penelope in the dead center of the room all at once.

_No…_

Then, before he knew it, the green gas had completely enveloped her. Her eyes widened, the fear and pain happening at once clearly visible in her distant gaze. Sly thought he heard a single, weak gasp escape from her. Her entire body then started to shudder, mostly her head. The chair she was in was visibly shaking as she convulsed as a reaction to the gas. Her mouth fell open, and a gasp could be heard again, this time longer and more stretched out, as well as much more distant and weak. Her head slowly craned back, further and further, her mouth open as if screaming to the sky, with no one there to answer her.

_NO!_

"NO!"

Sly screamed and started resisting Hans' grip furiously, trying his hardest to thrash around. However, the arm Hans had wrapped around Sly's neck dropped down and wrapped around both of Sly's arms, preventing him from reaching up to grab Hans. In addition, the second hand moved from the back of Sly's head to over Sly's mouth, covering it tightly and preventing him from making any kind of intelligible sound. Sly grunted and shook furiously, but was unable to move. He was just as restrained as Penelope was.

Through grinded teeth and flaring nostrils, Sly stared at the screen as Penelope continued convulsing and weakly gasping.

Then, suddenly, it was over. It was as if every single particle of life was completely sucked out of her body in a split second. Her head slumped forward so fast and suddenly that her glasses slid off her face, bouncing off her lap and crashing to the floor, breaking the still-intact lens. Her weak groan cut off abruptly like a record player that had the needle yanked away.

No more movement, no more sound, no more life.

Penelope was dead.

**To be continued…**


	19. Calm Before the Storm

Calm Before the Storm

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 10:18 P.M…_

Bentley and Murray, having received Sly's signal, had descended down into the valley, hugging the cliff wall rather than taking the long, risky, dangerous path that Sly had taken, knowing full well that he was much more agile than both of them could ever be. They hugged the wall, eventually reaching the tip of the peninsula of jagged, uneven, rocky terrain that extended like an arm from the base of the Volcano.

Murray, with the rifle slung over his shoulder and the shotgun in his hands, led the way for Bentley, dodging between larger rocks and casually shoving aside the smaller ones to allow Bentley to wheel through the rough area.

Eventually, they arrived just behind the line of metal buildings of the facility. There was a thin patch of grass between the rocky area and the metal walls. Both hopped down into this area and sneaked along the walls to the end of the long line of metal buildings.

When they finally reached the end of the line, they scurried around the corner, stopping just at the edge, and both leaned out to get a good look at the wide open field in front of the facility, with the hangar-like building nearby.

It was completely empty. Not a single soul could be seen. All of the heavily-armed guards that they had seen in their reconnaissance had vanished.

…

Sly's mind was an absolute wreck as Hans dropped him back into his chair. He simply sat there in open-mouthed stupor, the live feed cutting to static, then blank. The screen slowly retracted into the ceiling. The live image was gone, but the mental image was now permanently burned into his mind. Penelope, bruised, bloody, beaten, tied to a chair, dying, and dead. Helpless. And Sly, despite seeing the whole thing unfold live right before his own eyes, was unable to do anything about it.

He turned around without even thinking about his own body movements, sitting with his arms hanging and eyes gazing off into space stupidly. He would never be able to forgive himself for this. And he knew that Bentley probably wouldn't, either.

Vlotho leaned back with a content smile, knowing that the damage he had intended had been done, and done well.

"Wasn't that an outstanding picture?" He asked smugly. "Definitely deserving of several Oscars, including best leading actress and best visual effects, wouldn't you agree?"

Sly was just too stunned, too horrified to be angry at the cynical comments. It was still impossible. The thought was still incomprehensible. Penelope. Dead.

"I can understand if, on the slight offhand chance that any of you actually survive this, you'd want a body to take back and give a proper burial. Unfortunately for you, you'll never find that special execution chamber of ours. One of the first things we had done was to remove her communicator and take a common hammer to it. It will be as if she never existed.

"Now, while I do enjoy spending time with you, I'm afraid that I now have only about…" He looked at his gold watch once more. "…ten minutes. I cannot delay any longer. But I suppose I do have a little bit of time left. How about a show?"

Vlotho then slid his hands back across the wood of the desk, straightening up. He looked over at the far corner of the room, where the coyote stood silently, awaiting a single gesture.

Vlotho raised a hand, just one hand, up into the air. Hans perked up his head. Vlotho then curled all fingers into a fist, save for the index finger. He then lowered it and pointed it straight at Sly. He then brought down the index finger, turning his right hand into a complete fist. He then swiftly punched it against his left palm, curling his left hand's fingers over the fist. His grin grew, and he chuckled evilly.

Hans nodded and began advancing towards Sly.

Sly had an instant to shake off the emotional storm within his mind and react. Jumping up out of his chair, he spun around to face his attacker head-on. The coyote was upon him, and Sly barely had time to react.

Silently and swiftly, Hans threw the first punch; a sharp left hook aimed at Sly's jaw. Sly ducked under it and rushed forward, moving his right hand back behind him, clenching it into a fist, then swinging it forward and slamming it right into Hans' gut.

Hans barely even flinched.

He reached down, grabbed Sly by the back of his shirt, and flung him up off the ground, over his shoulder, and slammed him down onto the carpet, facing up at the ceiling in a daze.

Sly barely had time to even realize that he had been flipped before Hans grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up. Holding his neck with his right hand, he slowly and tightly clenched his left hand into a fist and moved it back.

All that Sly had time to do was close his eyes.

The force of the impact sent Sly flying just as Hans released his grip on his neck. Sly flew across the room and slammed into the potted plant on the right side of the elevator door – the sapling in the Greek era pot – and smashed the priceless artifact to pieces, sending shards of clay and clumps of dirt flying. The tree fell over, almost falling on top of Sly himself.

Leaping to his feet, Sly grabbed the tree by its base and flung it at Hans as he approached. While Hans tried to grab one of the thicker branches of the small tree, the cluster of leaves still enveloped him, rattling in his face, brushing up against him all over his torso in just slightly annoying, ticklish manners, obscuring his vision, and disorienting him. He frantically reached to take hold of another branch, but he could feel the tree being shoved forward against him, throwing him off-balance and sending him sprawling to the floor, tree on top of him.

While lying on the floor, he angrily ripped the tree off of him and launched it aside…

…only to see the raccoon standing over him, one of the priceless paintings from the nearby wall raised over his head.

Hans raised both of his arms, crossing them over his chest to brace against the impact of the painting as it was brought down and smashed cleanly in half.

Grabbing the half that landed on the floor near him, Hans leapt to his feet and swung the severed half at the raccoon, who was still holding the other half. Sly similarly blocked the attack with his half, and both halves collided and smashed even further.

Hans was the first to toss his half aside quickly. Before Sly could do the same, Hans' right hand smashed right through what remained of his half of the Van Gogh painting, grabbing the back of Sly's head. Sly let go of the painting, which still hung on Hans' arm, and reached for Hans' hand just as Hans shoved Sly aside, slamming him face-first against the metal wall.

The sharp impact sent Sly sprawling backwards onto the floor in a daze. Hans took advantage of this brief pause to pull the ruined painting off his arm before he raised both elbows, bent sharply and seeming tougher than metal baseball bats, and swung them down hard towards Sly.

At the last moment, Sly rolled off to the side, practically throwing himself out of the way as the elbows came down just where he had been lying moments earlier. He got to his hands and knees, then jumped up to his feet.

Hans was already on him, grabbing him by the neck once more with one hand, and slowly raising the other in a clenched fist.

This time, Sly knew what to do. He raised up both feet, planted them firmly against Hans' stomach, and shoved off. He managed to surprise Hans and both push him backwards as well as push himself out of Hans' grip. As Sly flew back, he spun around in mid-air, landing firmly on both feet and quickly straightening up. Hans, stumbling backward, clutched at his stomach for a few seconds before standing up straight and taller than Sly once again, lowering both fists and advancing towards Sly.

Sly did a quick observation of the room around him. He realized that there were only two exits: The elevator, which would obviously not work, as it would take forever to bring back up, and if he did successfully get it, it would simply bring him right down into the factory, full of personnel. The other was the chute that Hans had dropped the late Sergeant Bolan's body into earlier.

Sly glanced at the hatch to the chute, not too far away from him across the room.

Without even pausing for thought, Sly dashed towards it, yanked it down by the handle, and jumped right in.

It took Hans a few seconds to actually grasp what the foolish, unsuspecting raccoon had just done. He stopped, halfway across the room, and turned to his superior with a confused look, being genuinely shocked for the first time in his entire life.

However, Vlotho simply responded with a look that, while still displaying some bewilderment, was more borderline on amusement.

He then waved an empty palm at Hans several times, the gesture to relax.

"It's quite alright." He spoke more to himself. "He has no idea what he's gotten himself into. Chances are, he'll be dead before he's even realized it. May God not have mercy on his soul."

…

Sly's mind was racing just as fast as his body was. He found himself sliding effortlessly through the metal chute, definitely large enough for his relatively skinny body to fit through, as if it was greased on the bottom. He slid along, banging against the walls at every turn. He stuck his hands out in front of him, desperately trying to slow down his rapid descent. All kinds of thoughts were racing through his mind. What was this shaft? Where was it going? Why hadn't he tried to get his Cane back before jumping in? Was this really the better alternative to escaping through the factory?

After what seemed like an eternity of sliding through a metal prison, he slammed into yet another wall as it turned to the right once more, also declining a little bit more, making him move faster. It was one long, straight stretch, and he could finally see the other end.

It was glowing orange.

Sly's eyes widened as he put two and two together, remembering the precarious placement of Vlotho's quarters and this chute that was apparently used to dispose of garbage. He knew that he had to do something, and fast.

Sticking his arms out to the sides rather than in front of him, he spread his legs out as well, placing both feet and the lower halves of each leg against the wall of the chute, wedging himself in tight and hoping to slow down.

He watched fearfully as the exit fast approached, the orange glow getting larger and brighter, the heat already causing a few slight drops of sweat to appear on his brow..

He was slowing down. He pressed against the chute walls even harder, slowing down even more.

Then the exit was upon him. Despite his efforts, he still found himself sliding forward ever so tauntingly slow. He pressed even harder, but it was too late. His hands slid right out of the chute as the walls vanished, and the rest of his body followed easily.

He was in the crater of the Volcano, the massive pool of boiling lava about 7 feet below him, spreading out for what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of feet in all directions. As he fell, he flipped once and twisted around so that he was upright and facing the rock wall just below the end of the chute. He reached out blindly and managed to slip all of his fingers into a passing crevice. He swung down against the rock, slamming up against it once, then pulling himself even closer, pressing up against the secure rock wall.

After a few long seconds of breathing heavily, relieved to be alive, he looked down. The surface of the lava was barely a foot below him. However, between him and the lava was a single rock, jutting out from the side by only about 7 inches. It seemed thick enough to at least hold his weight. Sly slowly relaxed his fingers, stretching them out so that he was as close to the jutting rock as possible and wouldn't drop too hard onto it. He let go and gently landed on the jutting rock. Pressing up against the wall, he slowly turned himself around to face the lava.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and placed one hand over his heart. He slowly breathed in and out, in and out, trying to collect himself again before making his next move.

Then, out of the distance, he heard a strange sound. A distant clattering, followed by a long scratching sound. Not the kind of rough scratching heard when nails slide along a chalkboard, though, or a grain of sand on glass. It was a smooth kind of scratching, almost like a sliding. Like the kind of sliding his body did as he fell down the chute. He then heard another light clatter. It sounded like something long and narrow was tumbling down the chute, obviously an inanimate object.

After a few moments, the first object that came to Sly's mind made his fear shoot back up. He desperately looked up at the end of the chute, just above his head and over the lava. With one hand gripping a small handhold in the rock behind him, he leaned out desperately, his other arm stretched out as far as it could.

After a few more seconds, the source of the clattering emerged from the chute. Just as Sly thought, it was his Cane. It shot out and tumbled straight down towards the lava.

At the last moment, as it spun down through the air, Sly's fingers snatched it by the very tip of the hook. The very bottom of the Cane was just barely skimming the surface of the lava.

In a heartbeat, Sly jerked the Cane back, pulling himself back against the wall and clutching the Cane tightly against his chest, relieved to have it back.

He took a long pause, both to assess his situation and think about his next move.

Then, suddenly, he remembered Bentley and Murray. He quickly pressed his hand to his left ear.

"Bentley! Murray! Come in, do you read me? I've found out what they're doing! They're constructing a Second Clockwerk, and a whole army of Mech Eggs and Robo-Falcons! And they're going to launch them all _tonight_ in about 10 minutes! Guys!"

When there was no answer, not even the slightest sound of static or whining on the other end, Sly pressed one finger deeper into his ear.

The communicator was gone.

And he was now trapped, on a thin ledge of rock, just inches above boiling lava, in a massive Volcano crater.

…

Vlotho stood up out of his chair, grinning the smuggest of grins as he watched Hans toss the raccoon's Cane down into the chute with him, following him into his fiery grave.

"Burn in Hell, Sly Cooper."

Vlotho then leaned over his desk to the intercom speaker, holding down the single button, leaning in closer and putting his mouth near the speaker. He cleared his throat once as the standard whine shot through every single speaker in the facility, signifying that the Commander was about to speak, the whine drowning out the sound of him clearing his throat.

Once the whine finished, he spoke up in his deepest, proudest voice. "Attention, all personnel! Attention, all personnel! This is Commander Maximilian Vlotho. I understand that most of you are in formation in the main hangar. For those of you that are, you are officially at ease for now until I arrive. And for all scientists who are still on duty in the hangar rather than in formation, I want the project all ready for me to enter and initiate on a moment's notice, and all further instructions I will need ready to be relayed to me as if you were reciting a speech for the United Nations. That is all."

Releasing the button, he walked around his desk and across the freshly-stained red carpet, barely missing the communicator that had been knocked out of Sly's ear when Hans flipped him, and moved to the elevator. He turned to the right and gave a brief gesture of the right hand to signal Hans to follow him.

He walked over to the small panel next to the elevator doors and held down the white button for three seconds, then released it. He waited patiently as the elevator slowly rose back up to his chamber, and finally arrived. He stepped in, Hans following him.

The elevator ride down, despite his clear and unobstructed view of his progress through the glass, seemed to last forever. He glanced down at his watch.

Eight minutes.

The elevator had barely grinded to a halt, the doors halfway open, when Vlotho was already shoving through and walking at a rather fast pace down the metal catwalk, through the factory. He glanced around on all sides. All of the machinery had stopped. The conveyor belts, the melting boxes, the mechanical cranes, the magnetic cranes, everything. The only sound echoing throughout the entire factory was his footsteps, and those of Hans almost neatly paralleling his, with only a few longer strides on Hans' part (in an effort to keep up with his superior) sounding different.

They reached the end of the factory, where the large metal door was already wide open. One of the few members of personnel who had been ordered to remain somewhere in the facility other than the hangar – a fairly small pigeon – was leaning against the wall behind the metal door with two pistols holstered, one on each side of his waist. He was noticeably upset about not being there to witness the initiation, but he had been chosen due to being a fairly new recruit, relatively inexperienced and thus unworthy of witnessing the glorious launch, as well as the fact that the factory was probably the only place in the facility that absolutely had to be protected until the initiation, so as to keep the Mech Eggs and Robo-Falcons safe. He was probably one of the newest recruits, and it had been by pure happenstance that he had not yet found himself making a stupid error and facing Vlotho's wrath, like Sergeant Davis, Private Maclean, and Sergeant Bolan. It was either a brief glimpse of intelligence on his part or sheer luck that he had thought to have the door open so as to not delay his Commander's progress any further.

The two men walked right through the massive opening, turning left at the fork and heading down the long, metal corridor. Just like the factory, there was not a single sound to be heard anywhere. No guards, no scientists, no target practice, no experimentations of any kind going on behind those many, identical, closed doors.

As he hurried along, he glanced down at his watch again.

Five minutes.

He was now practically running – sprinting, even – down the hall. Hans mimicked him, keeping up with the racing badger.

Finally, they arrived at the door leading outside. He twisted the handle down and almost threw himself against the door, swinging it open and bolting across the grass to the hangar in the distance.

Four minutes.

…

Bentley and Murray barely had time to duck for cover behind the wall of a protruding building when they saw two figures: A short, furiously sprinting badger, and a tall coyote, following him with long strides. Murray, his shotgun at the ready, watched as the two men hurried across the grass towards the lone, hangar-like building.

"What are they doing?" Murray asked in a hushed voice.

"Let's head over to the side of the building. Maybe we can listen in."

Both waited until the two men passed by the front of the building, where the badger returned a salute from an unseen sentry, and disappeared through the massive, open door.

They both hurried across the grass as well, moving along so that they were approaching from one of the rear corners, away from where the sentry, or sentries, presumably was.

They reached the wall, pressing up against it with their backs to the building. Murray had the gun raised, barrel pointing up at the night's sky, as they slowly moved along the long wall towards the entrance.

Just as they began sneaking along the wall, they suddenly heard a booming voice from inside the building, clearly speaking over a loudspeaker or intercom system of sorts.

"Welcome, all personnel and proud members of ORNWOR! Tonight, you shall witness the beginning of the end! This is the night that you all waited 18 long years for!"

"Beginning of the end?" Murray whispered half-heartedly to Bentley. "What is that guy talking about?"

"Let's just keep listening."

"When we founded our humble organization almost 20 years ago, me and the other few founding members had a single goal. A dream. A vision. The idea that we, with the right kind of weaponry, never before heard of in the history of mankind, could work towards restarting the world! Erasing history and starting a whole new civilization! And it would not be possible without all of you!"

As they continued, Bentley felt that this man – whoever he was, unseen to them on the other side of the wall – was an exceptional speaker, speaking with true power, energy, enthusiasm, and finesse. More so than Martin Luther King Jr. or Adolf Hitler.

"You who turned your backs on your previous lives. Whatever family you may have had before you chose to start your new life here at ORNWOR. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, wives, and even children and grandchildren! You all chose to join this revolutionary group because you believed, just as much as I did and still do, that we can make this dream come true! And not just all of you fine hundreds of men standing before me now…but just as importantly, the men who are not standing here. Your comrades who have fallen for our cause, whether they were killed in the line of duty, taken into the custody of international law enforcement forces, or, especially, the seven brave men who made the ultimate sacrifice: The seven men who discovered this Volcano back in May of 1989, 16 years ago. Those men who reported back with their amazing discovery, including the original Clockwerk. Those men who, the day prior to our whole organization's arrival at the same place, lost their lives in a horrific and bloody battle. Those men fought well and valiantly, but none survived. Without them, we would have never discovered this place, with its amazing, unique metal, the advanced technology, far ahead of our time, and, of course, our savior in all his glory: Clockwerk!"

At the last word, both of them stopped just as they neared the corner of the building. The horrible feeling of fear instantly registered in their minds, stopping them both dead in their tracks and sending chills up and down their spines.

"Did…he just say…?" Murray asked.

"I think I know now what the source of the radioactivity we detected here earlier is." Bentley replied weakly.

"Let's just get out of here. Forget following these guys."

"You're right. And it's clear that every single one of the guards is in that building, as he just said. So that means that the rest of the facility is deserted, and safe for us to go through."

Bentley turned and looked back towards the main bulk of the facility.

"Come on, let's stick to the plan. We'll head inside and find Sly. The signal from his communicator is still reading strong."

"Got it."

Both retreated back along the wall until they were at a safe distance from the front, and then quickly retraced their steps to the wall of the metal across the way.

All the while, the voice booming from inside the hangar continued.

Bentley and Murray made it back to the main area of the facility, moving fast along the metal walls. The buildings, while mostly the same basic shape, had intervals where they briefly rose or fell, extended or retracted. It was like a massive conglomerate of metal buildings, all stretching out in one long line from the base of the Volcano like a massive metal arm. They finally reached the first of several large metal doors set into the side of the building. It was mostly featureless; a thick slat of Karovanine set back slightly from the rest of the wall, and with a single vertical handle on it. However, next to the handle, there was a keypad consisting of the twelve commonly-seen keys; the 10 different digits, the pound symbol, and the asterisk.

"Shoot! This thing needs a code!" Murray reported.

"I…don't have anything that can hook up to this keypad and get us in!"

"I'll bet all doors are like this one. How are we supposed to get in?"

Bentley was at a complete loss for words, and slowly found himself mustering up the courage to utter the three-word phrase he rarely, if never at all, ever said: "I don't know."

Then, suddenly, they could hear a soft beeping coming from the other side of the door. Light beeps in rapid succession, like typing on a keyboard.

…

Ivan stumbled and nearly fell over his own feet for the fourth time as he tore down the hall, repeating the same four-letter explicative in his mind over and over again.

Why the hell did he have to be late? Why the hell did he actually try to hide in the lavatory, thinking that he could actually get away from this? Why the hell was he so desperate to stay away from the launch? All of these questions found themselves answered by more questions, and were ultimately just massive distractions in his mind, straying away from the real issue.

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his platoon commander, Sergeant Bolan, was going to skin him alive, make his skin into a coat, throw his skinless body into a garbage disposal, and then bury the remains.

As he stumbled for the fifth time, he lost his grip on the balance point of the AR-15 that he was holding, and it nearly fell to the floor, its butt scraping the metal as it swung down loosely, his other hand still firmly gripping a point just below the tip of the barrel. He stopped for a moment and reached down to grab it by the trigger guard itself, raising it up again. After a pause, he cursed under his breath again and slung it over his shoulder. Screw it; he never liked carrying any kind of firearm at Order Arms anyway. He preferred it over his shoulder.

As it slung over, the butt loosely knocked against the handle of the sleek, nickel-plated pistol in his holster, fully-loaded.

He was probably one of the newest recruits, alongside his good friend Private Knox, and was also the youngest. Perhaps that contributed to his inability to comprehend the plans that this organization had, which resulted in his childish fear of their incredible weapons. Perhaps that was why he was so damn terrified of the very thought of a "Second Clockwerk."

But he was even more afraid of explaining his tardiness to Bolan. What if they were already in the middle of Vlotho's speech? Having to walk in right in the middle of _that_ would mean instant death.

Why the hell did Knox get the job of staying away from this launch? Why hadn't he volunteered? Then again, Knox had certainly not volunteered; he was chosen due to being the newest recruit, even if he was older than Ivan. Before the thought had actually occurred to him to volunteer, the decision was already made by Commander Vlotho himself. To suggest reconsidering his decision would only anger both Vlotho and Bolan and make him look worse. That is, worse than he already did look.

Even as he approached the door, he found himself trembling and about to wet himself as his fingers slowly entered the 6-digit code into the keypad. Was he actually going to go through with this?

After he entered the code, the keypad buzzed and the red light shut off, the green light next to it switching on, followed by a loud click as the door's deadbolts opened.

He grabbed the handle, pushed it down, and leaned against the door to open it.

As he opened the door and took the first step into the fresh, slightly cold night air, stars in the sky above, and the soft, short grass beneath his feet, he could already hear Vlotho's booming voice coming from inside the hangar, delivering a knockout speech proudly.

He swallowed and started to step out, about to place his other foot on the grass when he suddenly sensed a presence to his left. He turned and barely had enough time to see the large, bright pink mass next to him before his entire field of vision shifted to black, courtesy of a quick and sharp smack of a fist into his face.

…

The guard reeled backwards from Murray's blow to the jaw, sending him spinning around and slamming face-first into the half-open door, then slowly falling sideways, the front of his body facing the door, his arms stretched out beyond the door, and his waist and legs still inside the doorway.

"That was easy." Murray commented as he quickly grabbed the door and pushed it open further, allowing Bentley to wheel around the unconscious guard and inside the building. As Murray pressed his back up against the door to prop it open, he knelt down and picked up the cat by his ankles, dragging him inside. Just before the guard was out of the doorway, Murray looked up and took note of the matching keypad on the inside of the door. He stopped for a moment, glanced up and down the guard's body, and quickly took off one of his boots, placing it between the door and its frame, keeping it open. He then continued dragging the guard away from the opening, placing him against the wall and clapping his hands off as he turned to Bentley.

"Which way?" As he asked this, he glanced from the left to the right, noticing that both directions seemed to stretch on endlessly.

Bentley looked down at the small screen in the right armrest of his chair, displaying a small, radar-like readout. It depicted an aerial X-ray view of the building they were in, with the walls on both sides represented by lines, the doors represented by thicker sections of the lines, and the rooms beyond the doors by more lines, in whatever shape they were in. The dot at the center of the screen was Bentley's wheelchair, with a second dot right next to it being Murray's communicator. There was a dot on the far upper-right edge of the screen, down the right side of the hall, which issued a little pang every few seconds, emitting a single ring, almost like a wave, with every pang.

Bentley looked to the right.

"It's this way. Come on."

They both turned and ran down the hall, the doors on all sides racing past. All the while, there was still not a single guard in sight. All along the way, light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, protected by metal cages, illuminated the way. Their glow reflected off of the metal in a way that was strangely dull, but at the same time, strangely beautiful and pristine.

They raced along, past all of the closed doors. At one point, they passed by a setback area to the left, with large metal racks, presumably for weapons, stretching from the floor to the ceiling.

Every single one was completely empty.

They eventually came to a metal catwalk stretching across an open area, where the rest of the floor dropped away into a chamber that extended two stories. As they ran past, they noticed the lanes of dirt, with massive piles of sand at the end of each lane.

They continued along, racing along the catwalk and emerging back into the metal hallway.

"Are we getting closer?" Murray yelled behind him.

"We're closer now than we were before!" Bentley replied. "But we've still got a long way to go!"

"Geez, how long _is_ this place?"

They continued running along, eventually finally reaching a fork in the hall, branching off to the right and the left.

"Which way?"

"Um…the right."

They both turned and headed down the right side, where not a single door could be seen on either side. Instead, there was a single, massive door at the very end. It was of a slightly darker metal, similarly to how the bulky part hugging the Volcano wall was darker than the rest of the facility.

Murray looked up and down the door.

"Let me take a look at this."

Murray went up and gave the door a good look up and down.

"Wow. That's one big door."

"It's too big and too thick for any of my bombs. But that first door leading into the facility was pretty easy. Maybe this one isn't heavily locked down or anything."

"Um…OK…I'll try this."

He grabbed the dial in the center of the door and started to turn it in the clockwise direction. He kept turning it repeatedly until it suddenly slammed to a halt, not turning any further. He then grabbed the vertical handle and slid it back through the crevice on the other side. He then grabbed the vertical handle and tried to pull it open. It didn't budge. He put more strength into it, but it still didn't move. He then pressed up against it, trying to push it in. Still no luck.

"Nothing. You sure that Sly's through here?"

"That's what the tracker is telling me."

Just then, as Bentley looked back down at the screen on the right armrest of his chair, he took a quick glance behind them to make sure they were still in the clear.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, at the corner where the hallway had divided, Bentley saw something. A shadow on the floor. It came from the other path in the fork, and was moving ever so slowly towards the junction.

He frantically tapped Murray on the arm several times, diverting his attention from the stubborn door.

"What is it?"

Bentley frantically pressed a finger to his lips in the gesture to keep quiet. He then pointed at the floor ahead.

Murray followed the direction he was pointing, and saw it.

He quickly raised the shotgun, ran over to the wall, and started moving along the wall at a half-crouch, shotgun at the ready. Bentley stayed back by the door, watching fearfully.

Murray was just inches from the corner. The shadow continued moving along slowly. As it drew closer, it became evident that this person was extremely large. Yet there was not a single sound, except for Murray's own heartbeat and slow, controlled breathing. No footsteps.

Then the shadow stopped.

Murray absolutely refused to move. A single bead of sweat dripped from his brow, onto his nose. It was pin-drop silent throughout the entire hallway.

Then, in a flash, the figure emerged from around the corner. By the time Murray recognized who it was, the shotgun was whipped right out of his hands and thrown back over the attacker's head, slamming against the metal floor and clattering along, sliding several yards before skidding to a stop.

Murray, already at half his normal height, found himself straining to lift his head up high enough to look up at the man's face.

Murray refused to believe his eyes.

…

Inside the hangar, standing on top of the head of the massive Second Clockwerk, Vlotho stood tall, firm, and proud. He looked over all of the men inside the hangar. All guards were in neat, perfect, rectangular formations in their various platoons, all with weapons either in their hands at the Order Arms position, slung around their shoulders, in straps either on their chests or on their backs, or handguns holstered at their waists or on their legs. All of the scientists in the facility, from the team that had worked on the Second Clockwerk all this time right here in the hangar, to the scientists who oversaw the manufacturing of the Mech Eggs, Attack Robots, and Robo-Falcons, were all gathered at the main control board for the hangar, which was on an elevated platform about 10 feet off the ground, with a single staircase leading up to it. They stood, in their white coats, hands folded behind their backs. Off to the side, with only one platoon separating him and the Clockwerk, was Hans. Near him, standing in front of his platoon, was Colonel Grant.

"Through their sacrifice, we learned of this place of amazing technology, advanced weaponry, and eternal wisdom that we could gain from that glorious beast! Even when a certain group of foolhardy, oblivious, and cold-hearted Philistines attempted to destroy that great beast, he remained fighting to what seemed to be the very end! Even when the bulk of the dreaded International Police arrived and sealed off the area, they were like blind men walking towards a cliff! They underestimated the might of Clockwerk, which is something we never did! They poked around and dissected the marvelous base, playing with fire! Eventually, a great amount of their men paid the price for it when they were faced with the wrath of Clockwerk's metal upon dissolving completely in the molten lava!

"Like miserable ants that had a common garden hose pouring down on them, they were hopelessly defeated and retreated with their tails between their legs! Upon doing so, they hoped that the dangers here would simply ward off anyone else who dared to take a look at the marvelous wonders here. They thought that they could just leave behind the find of the century and expect no one else to come back! That's where _we_ came in! And now, even after 15 years, they haven't a clue about our presence here, and our intentions for the technology of this place! For 15 years, we have freely studied the magnificent, the majestic, the nearly-divine power of the original Clockwerk! For those of you who were here since 1997, you all surely remember the day when, with construction of this Second Clockwerk halfway completed, we had deemed the original to be no longer of any use to us. That unforgettable, mournful 16th day of October of that year, where the astounding, awe-inspiring, millennia-old original Clockwerk had to be officially retired. Watching as we eased that great dead beast into the molten lava of the Volcano crater after 7 years of holding it in our custody. That day, a legend almost as old as mankind finally departed from this earth, returning to the heavens to join the supernatural beings that it was one of. A fallen angel of sorts, going home. Now, its memory shall live on! Its demise shall not be in vain!

"Tonight, at 22:30, 10:30 P.M., the magnificent Second Clockwerk shall rise up, as if risen from the grave! Three days after he began his period of half-dead and half-alive, he shall now take full life and reign powerful in all his glory once again! All who think of him shall tremble! All who hear his name shall be struck with fear and dread! All who hear his roar will collapse! And all who see him shall _die_!

"First, upon launching the Second Clockwerk, I shall initiate the entire army of prepared Robo-Falcons, which are also fully-armed, fully-functional, and fully-operational, who will take all of the Mech Eggs in their claws, one Egg per Falcon, and they shall rise up out of that gloomy factory, swarm around their leader, and follow me through the skies as we begin our conquest! At the same time, all of you shall gather every single weapon that you can out of this facility, mobilize in your various vehicles, and follow from the ground.

"We shall start by mobilizing straight through Russia over to the broken and unstable region of the Middle East! Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and all the others in that region, which are currently in great chaos and turmoil. We shall topple all of their governments with full-scale bombardments of their capital cities and major cities, and eventually declare the countries under our control, and issue the ultimatum: Join our army, and help us in completely eliminating all of your enemies and our enemies, in an effort to erase history and restart this earth with a whole new civilization, or die. All militants – and even citizens, if they wish – will contribute with their own weapons, and join us. We will then spread out all across northern Africa, such as Egypt, and sweep through all of those poorer governments as well. We shall continue issuing the ultimatum to all who may hear it, and we shall further assimilate more and more armies, more navies, and more manpower and firepower, spreading our conquest all throughout Africa from north to south, easily toppling all of the weak, corrupt, and crumbling governments there!

"Once the entire continent of Africa is under our control, we move back up through the Middle East and conquer the regions of Pakistan, Tajikistan, India, and Indonesia. From there, we move back west through the now-conquered Middle East and finish off the remaining countries, such as Israel. Then we move back and take China, and Russia. With all of Asia and Africa under our thumb, we finally tackle the harder opponent: Europe. We shall sweep from east to west, taking it one country at a time, with Sweden, Norway, Finland, and Romania, among others, being the first. We then spread through to Germany, Italy, Switzerland, Poland, France, Spain, and Portugal, among others. Finally, we take Great Britain, Scotland, and Ireland. With three of the continents and the entire Eastern Hemisphere conquered, we shall move back towards Australia, New Zealand, and every other island in that region, sweeping in and taking it by storm. Four continents will be down at that point. Then, finally, we make our first long-distance cross over the sea, moving east across the South Pacific and moving in towards South America, taking middle countries such as Chile and Brazil, then moving down south, then sweeping back up north to countries such as Peru and Colombia. Then we move in and take down Mexico, then across the Caribbean to Cuba and Haiti. Finally, after five continents have fallen, we finally move in for the grand finale, the coup de grace, by taking down our most dangerous foe: North America, the United States, and Canada!

"It sounds incredible and foolhardy, I understand. But rest assured: It is a matter of following the Domino Theory. One country falls, the next falls with it, and the next follows, then the next. Many countries around the world are in their worst shape right now. We hit the worst, poorest, most desperate countries first, and work our way up. It is all a matter of a snowball rolling down a hill: An unstoppable force that, as it moves along, will grow larger and more powerful. All of this shall be accomplished, because we have THIS!

"With this Second Clockwerk, with its absolutely impregnable metal shield, which shall never corrode, or rust, or weaken, it shall be invincible to any possible weapon that may be used against it. From conventional firearms to missiles, and even suicide planes. It is also equipped with the most advanced form of machine guns, turrets, and heat-seeking, infrared-vision missiles. Its laser, though, is the true finishing touch. The laser can be emitted from the mouth of the beast at any time, anywhere, thanks to the solar power that this machine runs off of! Its deadly beam destroys anything that it hits or may pass through it, and upon impacting into a large enough target or the ground, instantly results in a massive explosion that, depending on the setting of the level of power put into it, engulfs everything in the area, in any and every direction, from as little as 100 feet, to as far as _5,000_ feet!

"That, along with the unstoppable army of Robo-Falcons, Mech Eggs, and Attack Robots, as well as the additional service provided by you, we shall achieve these goals that so many in the past came so close to doing! That is why we are superior! We shall not fail! Today, we shall rewrite the history books, with ORNWOR as the publisher and Maximilian Vlotho as the author!"

He paused, letting his own words sink in for all of the men and for himself.

Finally, in his booming voice, he yelled: "Personnel!"

Just as they had been trained, every single guard snapped to Parade Rest at that moment, in perfect unison, with crispness and sharpness that would've put the United States Marines to shame.

"Attention!"

They all pulled their weapons back, closed their feet together, and placed both fists, clenched firmly, at their sides. Once again, in perfect unison, like a whole body.

With that, he slowly turned and stepped down off of the Clockwerk's head. He walked down towards the open hatch on top of the back, easing onto the edge and then dropping down into the bowels of the Second Clockwerk.

Inside, the area that was Clockwerk's actual body – the area between the two massive wings – was mostly hollow on the level he was on. The entire second level below housed all of the engines. The top level, where he was, was the actual cockpit. He dropped down right next to the massive pilot's chair, which was similar to most seats commonly seen on airliner jets. Before it was the massive control board. From wall to wall, there were buttons, switches, screens, lights, levers, gauges, radar readouts, and, above all, the steering mechanism.

Directly above the control board was the pair of yellow eyes. From the inside, they hardly appeared yellow. As a matter of fact, it was as if they were perfectly normal, clear windows. If anything, the view through the eyes magnified and put everything in the Clockwerk's line of vision into extreme high quality and focus, making visual precision almost just as good as electronic precision.

He moved the chair, brushing the right armrest thoughtfully as he passed by it. He slowly turned around and eased himself into the chair. He then slowly grabbed the lever at the front of the right armrest with the index finger and thumb of his right hand, ticking it forward ever so slightly, and moving it forward on the small track that it was on, moving out from underneath the open hatch and moving closer to the control board. He slowly looked around at all of the controls, at the so many different ways to operate this marvelous machine. He slowly closed his eyes and remembered all of the training that he had gone through for the last several years. All of the lectures by those scientists, telling him all of the basic controls, how to do this, how to do that, what he should never do, which controls he should use at what time, which two switches to never flip in rapid succession, and so on.

He started by reaching over and grabbing a single lever that was currently in the down position, facing towards him. He grabbed its vertical, T-like handle, and slowly pressed it forward, closing the hatch above him.

As he heard the hatch seal shut with a metallic click, then a slight thump as it fell into place and locked itself, he knew now that he was completely sealed inside. It was now impenetrable. He was alone inside this machine of pure majesty and destruction.

A feeling of relief, accomplishment, and satisfied hunger came over him as he slowly started to lift both hands towards the controls, repeating the pattern of buttons and switches that had recited to him umpteen times in his mind over and over again.

_This is it…At long last._

**To be continued…**


	20. The Factory: Part I

The Factory: Part I

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 10:31 P.M…_

Murray couldn't believe his eyes. He refused to believe it. He simply wouldn't…

He had returned. The same man who had pursued them through the streets and freeways of Los Angeles, through that dangerous mountain path in the helicopter…whom they had supposedly killed twice now. He had come back.

His outfit was clearly very worn, most likely after his near-death experience in the helicopter. There were several ragged holes in it, dangling pieces of cloth, and he was dirty and bruised. No blood was visible. Any weapons he might have had left were gone. He stood there, before Murray, fists clenched, having just thrown Murray's shotgun back behind him further down the hallway.

And Murray was inches away from him, still half-crouched and feeling more vulnerable and weak than he ever had before.

Without even thinking, Murray leapt to his feet and jumped backwards, flipping in mid-air. He could feel the rushing of air below him as the man swung his fist out in a powerful punch, barely missing.

Murray landed on his feet several feet away from the man. He quickly pulled the rifle slung over his shoulder down along his arm, whipping it into position in both hands, a full clip already loaded in. He took aim.

In a heartbeat, the man was upon him, grabbed the tip of the barrel, and yanked it up, aiming it away from his face just as Murray pulled the trigger. The shot went high and hit the ceiling, ricocheting off with a spark and the familiar sound echoing throughout the hall.

This time, Murray maintained an iron grip on the rifle, refusing to let go. The man jerked back on the rifle once, almost pulling it out of Murray's grip. But his pull was so strong, Murray felt several of his fingers instantly pop from the strain. He tightened his grip, despite the searing pain.

The man, realizing Murray's persistence, took another alternative. He wrapped one of his arms several times around the barrel, still keeping the tip away from him, and then, with all his might, swung it down as hard as he could, bringing his knee up from under it at the same time as fast as he could.

Murray could only watch in mute shock and horror as the Ruger snapped in half on the man's knee, metal, wood, and all. It took Murray a few more moments to register the reality of this, and, realizing the worthlessness of the half of the weapon he held in his hand, he threw it aside, turned, and bolted back down the hall. Bentley, now equally terrified, backed up against the massive metal door. Murray ran up beside him, furiously pushing against the door, slamming it repeatedly with his fists.

"Open up! OPEN UP!"

The man slowly lowered his knee, brushing it off ever so casually, removing the few remaining splinters of wood and shards of metal. He unwrapped his arm from the now-severed barrel, and lightly released it. It clattered to the ground.

Frantically, Bentley pressed the red button on the left armrest of his chair that deployed his built-in bino-cu-com and sleep dart gun. At the same time, the keyboard shot out from the left armrest across his lap.

"Hurry up, Murray! I'll try to hold him back!"

Instantly, Bentley fired the first dart. It sailed straight at the man and hit him in the chest. He paused, looked down at the puny dart sticking out of his chest, and nonchalantly grabbed it, pulled it out, and dropped it to the floor.

Bentley quickly started reloading the next dart, while Murray continued pounding on the door.

…

Private Knox sat on the other side of the metal door, leaning against the wall beside the door, arms folded in discontent. He let out yet another humph, signaling his infuriation at what had befallen him.

Being the newest recruit, having joined the group only about four weeks ago, he was the one who was left with the duty of guarding the factory. He was probably the only member of the personnel in the entire facility who wasn't at the grand launch ceremony right now. All of the other guards, those big fancy officers, those know-it-all technicians and scientists, and that mute, deaf coyote who followed Commander Vlotho everywhere like a lost puppy, were all in there right now, witnessing the moment that they had all been trained, been prepared, been waiting for. And he wasn't.

He took a deep breath and sighed, shaking his head. Now that he thought about it, being a member of this group didn't seem all that great. He wasn't one of the decorated, veteran officers who had been in the group since 1987. He wasn't one of the ingenious minds behind the massive beast that they spoke so much about, saying it would be the key to their world domination. Hell, he had never even seen this "Second Clockwerk." He was almost starting to doubt its existence. How could they possibly create a duplicate of something as fascinating as Clockwerk?

He snorted. That Vlotho was a nutcase. A grade-A psycho. A lunatic. All those talks of rewriting history and whatnot. It was ridiculous. It was a crazy man talking, telling them what to do, what to expect, and what would happen.

Still, if there was a Second Clockwerk, he would've liked to see it.

He glanced up from the metal, grated floor below him and looked up. This massive factory that he was in, with a massive network of metal platforms suspended in mid-air, of all shapes, sizes, and heights, and with all kinds of mechanical and electronic equipment on them, dotting the entire interior of the factory. From the ceiling up above, massive, bright light bulbs dangled from chains almost 200 feet long, with metal lampshades above them, and metal cages surrounding and protecting them. They provided sufficient lighting, the light glinting off of the metal. Everywhere in this factory, from the walls, to the platforms, to the railings, to the doors, even to some of the equipment, was constructed out of the unique metal found here and only here at the Krak-Karov Volcano. That crazy Vlotho called it "Clockwerk's metal." Everywhere the light hit the metal, it gleamed back with a strange level of beauty reminiscent of platinum.

Despite the bountiful light, the factory was completely empty. Not a single person remained throughout the entire massive building besides him. It was dead silent. There wasn't a single scientist, standing at the controls and watching the conveyor belts roll along with their deadly weapons in-the-making riding on them. There wasn't a single mechanical arm moving around, moving the materials into place. There wasn't a single conveyor belt, rolling along with its steady hum. There wasn't a single creak. There wasn't a single beep. There wasn't a single groan. Everything was shut down. It was completely still, and completely silent. He could hear a pin drop yards away if it happened.

This place was as creepy as hell.

He shook it off and tried to think of something else to keep him from scaring himself like a child. He decided to think about the one area of the factory that he couldn't see: The very bottom. This thought prompted him to look down through the metal grating of the floor, into the darkness below. The men around here called that area Hell's Roof. It was mostly empty, bare, and dark, save for one common feature: Massive metal vats all lined up in long rows. Dozens upon dozens of them, huge, tall, and wide. They were all full of completed Mech Eggs containing Attack Robots, and Robo-Falcons, all curled up with their wings covering most of their bodies and talons pulled in closer to their bodies, as if sleeping. It was an entire dormant army down there, waiting to be awakened. He thought about the one time he had actually been to Hell's Roof; standing among those massive metal silos, looking into the cold, lifeless eyes of the Robo-Falcons as they slept…

He soon found himself shaking off this thought too, since it was just as creepy to him as the thought of being alone in here. He sighed once more. The brief sound of his exhalation instantly vanishing into the darkness and silence…

Then, in a heartbeat, the silence was shattered like glass when there was a sudden loud pounding on the door next to him, causing him to jump and stumble briefly. It sounded like a muffled explosion to him, standing right next to it and all. It was a massive pounding, repeatedly rattling on the other side of the door. At one point, it became so intense that the door itself was actually shaking ever so slightly in its frame.

He then heard a voice on the other side, deep and frantic. "Open up! OPEN UP!"

It clearly wasn't Russian, which was pretty much the first language of this group. It didn't sound like anyone he knew around here.

Yet the pounding continued, unceasing and growing louder, faster, and harder.

He stood away from the wall now, a hand on one of his two pistols holstered at his side. It was the one on his left; a 44. Magnum Colt Anaconda. One of the toughest handguns in the world, with one hell of an impact and recoil. He gripped the handle of it, ready to pull it out in a moment's notice.

The pounding continued. It was clear that it wasn't going to stop. He figured that he might as well open it. If it was a comrade, then he would have the situation explained to him. If it was an intruder, he would blow them away in an instant.

He pulled his gun out and held it at the ready in one hand. With the other, he reached up and spun the dial on the door in the counterclockwise direction, opposite the one on the other side of the door, until it stopped spinning. He then slowly grabbed the vertical handle sticking straight out of the door, and slowly slid it back through the crevice, towards the end.

He held up the pistol, ready for anything.

Then the handle reached the other end of the crevice.

Before he even had time to react, the door swung open faster than he thought possible for a door of this size. It swung straight out at him, smacking into him hard and lifting his feet off the ground. He found himself pressed against the door due to it moving so fast, and before he knew it, the door had swung completely open, slamming against the wall behind it, catching him between the door and the wall.

He was out before he even hit the floor.

…

Murray, recovering from his charged-up run at the door from nearly 8 feet away, shook his head and looked up. He saw that the door was finally open, and grabbed Bentley by the back of his wheelchair, practically throwing him in through the open door. He then ran inside behind him, reached over and grabbed the edge of the door, and with more might and adrenaline than he ever had put into a single effort before, he swung the massive door shut again just as the man was two feet from the door. He slammed it into place, grabbed the vertical handle, and slid it back into place. He then grabbed the dial and spun it around furiously in the opposite direction, sealing that lock as well.

Just then, there was another fierce pound on the door, even harder and deeper than Murray's. It was followed by another, and then another.

Murray, thoroughly exhausted and with his heart still racing due to the terrifying encounter and disbelief at what was happening, stepped back from the door with small, weak steps, almost tripping on his own feet at one point.

"Did…did you see him? It's _him_! He's _back_!"

"My sleep dart seemed to have no effect on him, either." Bentley replied in a depressed tone.

"Are you kidding? He snapped the Ruger clean in half on his knee! I've never seen him do anything like that! I've never seen _anyone _do that! Do you know what it takes to break a _gun_?"

"Well, never mind. That door's obviously very secure, so we're safe for a while here…"

Bentley turned around as he said this, and stopped in mid-sentence when he saw just where they were.

"Oh…my…"

Bentley couldn't even think of a good finishing third word for that statement.

Murray soon saw the same thing, and realized it as well.

"Whoa…what is this place?"

"If I'm not mistaken, it's some kind of factory." Bentley then craned his neck back to look up at the ceiling, barely visible in the darkness beyond the reach of light. "And judging by the size of this place, I'd say we're now in the area of the facility that was up against the Volcano wall. The area where there were high concentrations of radioactivity as well."

He then looked down at the small screen on his right armrest.

"And we're still on the right track. According to this, Sly's up ahead, somewhere either in or beyond this factory."

"Well, let's go!"

At that moment, there was another loud slam on the door, much more powerful than before. Murray turned around just in time to see another slam just like the last, and the door actually leaned forward under the force.

As he looked back at the door, he finally noticed the single guard lying on the floor, against the wall, behind the door. A pigeon, with a pistol still gripped in his hand.

"Well, would you look at that?"

He quickly turned around and headed over to the guard, ducking instinctively as another slam sounded, and kneeled down.

"Wonder what happened to him?"

"Never mind that, Murray! Just grab his gun and let's go!"

Murray pried the .44 Magnum revolver from the guard's motionless hand and placed it in his belt. He then jumped to his feet, spun around, and began descending down the staircase after his friend.

"If he gets through, we're gonna have to find a place to hide!" Murray declared.

"I think we might have all of that covered already. This place is full of equipment and machinery. But for now, let's just focus on getting through this place to wherever Sly is."

They reached the bottom of the staircase and started across the first metal platform.

…

Knox's mind was in a daze, stars dancing in front of his eyes and his vision fading between reality and pure blackness. He heard a whole cacophony of sounds buzzing in his ears, unable to discern real sounds from the fake sounds. He thought he heard voices, speaking in English…

All through the ordeal, there was always a loud slamming sound every few seconds.

He slowly managed to lift his head and look around, eyes half shut. The rest of his body felt completely limp.

Then, ever so gradually, feeling started to return to his body. It was a feeling of pain. He felt like he had just had the wind knocked out of him by a speeding train, or maybe a jet. It hurt just to try to lift his arm up to grab anything that he could use to pull himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to recollect his mind, and looked around again, opening his eyes wide and closing them shut repeatedly to try to ward off the dancing stars and black spots.

He was lying on the floor, right behind the massive metal door. He was leaning up against the wall behind it, his head facing the direction of the door. He slowly moved his right arm inward towards his body, trying to prop himself up on one elbow. Another stab of pain.

He propped himself up sideways just as there was another loud bang. He glanced at the door, which had just settled back into place.

The door…

It was starting to come back to him. He remembered hearing a frantic pounding on the other side of the door, and a voice yelling to be let in. He remembered opening the door…

The door…

It was the door that had knocked him out. He remembered it so clearly now. The door had swung open.

He paused, halfway through pulling his other arm back to prop himself up on both arms, as the realization dawned on him.

Someone had gotten in.

Those voices… He clearly remembered the one that shouted to be let in repeatedly…but had he heard another one? A second one?

He propped himself up partially and looked down the staircase, at the first platform below. He couldn't see any movement. The factory was still eerily silent and still.

Then, as he regained more feeling, his hearing improved slightly. Could he hear steps retreating on the metal, just beyond his line of vision?

He slowly lifted up the top half of his body and around. He eventually managed to glance up at the door. On cue, there was another furious slam. This wasn't like the desperate, frantic, repeated pounding from earlier. This was one loud, firm, and powerful pound every few seconds.

He leaned up and started the painful process of lifting himself up to his knees. He managed to do so, but as he straightened up, he could already feel pain and limpness take over, and he started to fall backwards. He reached out behind him with one hand and grabbed onto the metal railing as he fell, managing to grab it and stop just before he could slam backwards onto the metal floor.

His arm twisted behind him, and he struggled to maintain his grip. He then took a deep breath, mustered all of his strength, and pulled himself back against the railing, placing his feet beneath him and gaining firm ground just as another loud bang slammed against the door nearby.

With a slight wobble here or there, he finally managed to stand up straight, his back against the railing.

He raised a hand and placed it against his forehead. He had taken one hell of a hit.

Then, finally, he noticed the oddity. One hand was against his forehead, and the other was holding onto the railing behind him.

But when he had been hit, his pistol was in his left hand.

He pulled his left hand down from his forehead and looked at it just to be sure. It was empty.

Someone had definitely come through here. And they took his gun.

Cautiously, he reached for the other one, this one being a classic .357 revolver, and whipped it out. He held this one firmly in both hands, tightly gripping the handle, and managed to move away from behind the door, standing directly in front of it. The gun was halfway up, between the floor and directly aiming at the door.

There was another furious pound, louder than before. As the pounds continued, they only got louder and harder, and the door seemed to actually move further and further.

Then, suddenly, something he never could've imagined happened right before his very eyes.

One of the door's massive hinges, the one on the top, actually snapped. Just barely, but one of the thick rivets was knocked out of place, and a corner of the huge door now jutted out irregularly.

The door was actually being broken down.

Knox, out of fear and instinct, stepped back several more feet, with the top of the staircase just a couple feet behind him. He raised the pistol higher.

Then another pound. Half of the hinge now had broken off, and was bending in an irregular shape. The door was definitely taking damage. Another slam. That hinge was definitely on its last legs…

The next hit finally did it. The hinge flew off from the impact, clattering to the floor a few feet beside Knox.

He couldn't believe it. This door, the thickest and most secure door in the entire facility, along with the door of the main hangar, was actually being smashed through.

He couldn't stand the very thought of whatever was on the other side.

Apparently, somehow, the person on the other side could sense that significant damage had been done, and started pounding away even harder, with the pounds being delivered with more strength and in quicker intervals.

Finally, the gun was aimed directly at the door, right in the center of the dial in the middle of the door.

Despite the powerful gun he had on him, and the knowledge that he was safe this time, being out of the way of the door, Knox still felt a great level of unease. With each pound, his fear increased. His knees started to buckle, and his gun started to shake.

From that point, he wasn't sure if it was several seconds, several minutes, or even ten minutes. But, after a nonstop string of pounding, the door weakened further and further, more hinges and rivets and bolts coming out, until, finally, it was off. With a single, loud slam, followed by the deep groaning of bending metal, the last of the hinges came off, and the last of the locks were broken through. The massive door moved forward several inches, then hung limply in its frame, leaning back slightly.

For a few long seconds, there was silence.

Then, with a lurch, the door moved ahead even further, finally and completely breaking free of its frame. He noticed, briefly, two hands on the door; one hand on each side, fingers barely visible as they wrapped around the massive metal door.

Then, with a heave, the unseen force lifted the door up off of the floor and practically threw the massive slat of metal to the left, where it spun briefly on its bottom end, then fell straight down and clattered to the metal floor, the dial and vertical handle from the other side facing up, and with several slight dents in the thick metal.

For a few moments, Knox was stupefied. Then he slowly looked up at the head of the towering figure standing where the door had been a few seconds ago. He realized now that, where the gun had previously been aimed at the door's central dial, it was now barely aiming at the man's stomach.

The man, with fists slowly clenching and tightening, a firm stance, and the look of death in his blank eyes, looked right through Knox's soul.

Knox felt like he was going to wet himself. He barely managed to keep the gun secure in both hands.

For a few long seconds, it was a standoff that would've made a fish blink. Neither moved, or spoke, or made any gesture towards the other. Silence fell over the factory once again, the distant echo of the door's clatter to the ground fading away…

The large man slowly lifted up one foot.

"NO!" Knox screamed. With a reflexive step back, he took aim, closed one eye, and instantly fired all six shots in rapid succession.

With each shot plating directly into the man's chest at point-blank range, he froze for a split-second, then jerked back slightly with each shot.

Even after all six shots were gone, Knox continued pulling back on the trigger, with two empty clicks sounding as the empty chamber spun around in two brief rotations, before realizing that his weapon was empty.

He slowly opened one eye and ever so slightly lowered the pistol.

The man was frozen where he stood, one foot still slightly ahead of the other. Then he took a single step backward.

His head then hung low, his arms moved out in front of him slightly, and he fell backwards with a long, seemingly slow-motion tumble. When the large man slammed down onto the metal floor behind him, it resounded all throughout the factory with a slam of body against metal, seemingly louder than any of the slams made while he repeatedly bashed on the door. The massive head leaned back ever so slightly, the arms both turning slightly so that the palms faced inward towards his body, rather than flat against the cold, metal floor.

The moment he hit the ground, and after the last few pre-mortem moments, his body was completely still. Like a statue, there was no movement, no sign of life from the absolutely motionless and lifeless figure.

He lowered his gun. He took another step back out of shock and fear. He looked back briefly to see how close he was to the tall, narrow metal staircase behind him. It was barely a foot away from him, stretching down 20 feet to the next platform…

He turned and looked back at the body of the man he had just shot…

…which was now standing straight up, right in front of him.

Knox didn't even have time to think about it. He raised his pistol again, but only after he pulled the trigger once did he remember that his chamber was empty.

The man crossed his right arm over his chest, fist clenched, then swung it sideways with all his might, knocking the worthless pistol out of Knox's hand. It flew from his hand, over the railing, and fell down into the chasm below.

At the same time, the force of the impact sent Knox stumbling backwards, and before he realized what was happening, he was tumbling head over feet down the metal staircase, repeatedly slamming against either the steps or the railing, pain shooting through his body as the world spun around him and didn't stop.

Eventually, finally, he felt the longer and harder impact as his body finally reached the bottom of the staircase. Even so, the world continued spinning around him in a daze, his vision fading in and out, just like after he had been hit by the door.

This time, however, the pain was even greater and prevented him from moving at all. When he tried to move even slightly, he felt a powerful shot of pain ring up and down his body three times. It was most powerful in his left leg. It was stinging, burning, as if a knife had been shoved through it and pulled back out.

He barely managed to move his eyes down to look at his leg. It was leaking blood just below the knee, and he could've sworn that he saw a fragment of white sticking out among the torn flesh and red blood. It was definitely broken.

As he tried his hardest to stay conscious, he could hear a rhythmic pounding sounding above and behind him. It was the all-too familiar sound of footsteps on metal, one after the other in perfect cadence, as his attacker slowly and tauntingly came down the stairs after him.

The only thought going through Knox's mind at that moment wasn't pain, fear, or anger. It was shock. Disbelief.

_I shot him…I shot him six times…Six times…in the chest…I shot…him…_

Then, the footsteps stopped just as they were at their loudest. He could sense the massive presence towering over him from behind. At the very edge of his periphery, he could see the massive boot raise up into the air, directly over his head. It came down, the darkness rushing at him and being all that he could see.

…

He crushed the pigeon's neck as effortless as one would step on a twig in the park in autumn. He then brushed the limp body aside with one foot as if it were a piece of garbage. He slowly advanced down the metal platform, past all of the equipment, searching relentlessly for his true prey. That pigeon was only an appetizer; a brief satisfaction after several days of not killing, especially after such a long and successful killing spree.

As he continued walking, he briefly reached under his shirt to adjust his Kevlar vest.

He walked down the metal platform, his footsteps clanging off the metal and echoing back into the distance, slowly slipping away into silence. He glanced side-to-side over and over again, carefully observing the entire area as he progressed through. He remembered this area as he came through it once before, to meet up with his latest client. He memorized the entire main path, as well as several side areas and raised platforms around the main area. He also remembered one crucial fact: There were only two ways out of this factory. One was the entrance that he had just burst through, and the other was the elevator leading up to his client's elegant private quarters. And there was no way out of that chamber. Thus, he didn't necessarily have to capture his prey. All he had to do was keep pushing his prey back further and further through the factory, eventually forcing them into a complete corner where they would be doomed. He knew that they had no weapons on them. Neither did he, but he was clearly physically superior and would dispatch both of them in a heartbeat. Then he could find the other two, wherever they were, somewhere in this facility…

But as he progressed along, past all of the equipment, searching slowly and patiently for his targets, he felt something else brewing inside of him. Something he had never felt before. A different feeling…a feeling that told him that, despite all of his training, and experience, and teachings, this particular venture was no longer strictly business. He had no idea how; all odds and logic defied it. But somehow, miraculously, these last four targets had escaped him not once, but twice. Never before had even one target survived more than one encounter with him. Most never even _did_ survive their first – and last – meeting. Not even one; let alone four. But they had defeated him several times; first in his stolen police car, then in his stolen semi-truck, then in his stolen helicopter. Three times they managed to cripple his mode of transportation and humiliate him. But now…no more. No more of them evading him and running from the inevitable. Now he would thoroughly _destroy_ each and every one of these last four targets. Slowly, painfully, and surely. Revenge would be his.

…

Bentley and Murray raced down the stairs, along the first long metal platform, and ran past all of the machinery, equipment, and other futuristic features of the factory. However, every time Bentley looked back, he could still see the massive door in the distance. He could also hear a repeated pounding coming from the door every few seconds.

"This is ridiculous!" He exclaimed. "If we keep running in a straight line, he'll follow us no problem! We have to start zigzagging through here to throw him off our trail!"

"Got it!" Murray agreed.

They both turned to the nearest juncture, on their left, which was a staircase of only three steps, which ran under one of the long conveyor belts, and led to a smaller platform that was just about level with the conveyor belt. When they saw that it was a dead end, they both turned and jumped onto the motionless conveyor belt and ran down it. They eventually reached the end of the belt, ending in a massive metal box with a small opening in the front of it. Bentley used his chair's built-in afterburner to jump to the top, while Murray leapt up after him with his own strength. From the top of the box, they were able to leap to another metal platform a few feet across from it, directly above the main path below them.

Looking down through the metal grating, they could see that they were now at least 20 to 25 feet above the first platform. Looking up at the surroundings level with them, they could now see two different paths extending out from the main platform they were on right now. One that ran forward, directly parallel and running in the same direction as the main path, and one branching out to the right, with several more monitors and control boards. They opted to take the platform running parallel to the main path, running along the much narrower platform as they continued to move further away from the door.

Then, suddenly, after the long, repetitive series of pounds that they had grown used to hearing as their follower pounded on the door, there was suddenly yet another, much louder bang, followed by a huge metal clang.

Both paused right where they were, turning back in the direction of the door. However, with the grated floor of the platform they were running on coming between them and the door, combined with the distance that they had put between themselves and the door, they couldn't clearly make out what was happening at the entrance.

Then, they heard a voice. "NO!"

Following the yell were six rapid, loud gunshots in quick succession. Then there was a loud, dull thump that echoed throughout the factory.

Both exchanged a nervous glance. Had their attacker been shot down by the guard they came across? Or had the tables somehow been horribly turned for that unfortunate guard?

A few more seconds of silence passed.

Then, they could hear the sound of a loud smack, then the sound of a metal object clattering to the floor so distant, it sounded as if it had fallen off the edge to the unseen bottom floor below. Then they heard a series of rapid smacking sounds, much less powerful and not as loud, but still echoing throughout the empty, deserted factory. It sounded as if someone was falling, rolling along.

Then it stopped. Silence once again…

Then a sound reminiscent of a heartbeat. There was a low, metal pounding in perfect rhythm, one after the other. Heavy footfalls on the metal floor in the distance.

Then, suddenly, there was a sharp _crack_ that resounded loud and clear, right up to them. It was as if a massive tree branch had been snapped a few feet away. It was a sick and nauseating noise that they knew could only be the sound of some bone or other body part breaking. Bentley briefly felt bile rising in his throat, then quickly forced it back down before it could come up any further.

"What was that?" Murray whispered, sick to his stomach.

"Sounds like that guard you ran into had a rather rude awakening." Bentley replied weakly.

"Come on, we have to keep moving."

They continued down the path a little further, only to find that it was a dead end.

"Shoot. Go back."

They both returned to the platform directly across from the top of the metal box they had jumped onto, and turned down the other path. This one went out to the right for a while, slightly wider than the path they had chosen before. They continued along it, moving out away from the main path. It bended hard to the left, running parallel with the main pathway, and descended into a thin metal staircase. They both quickly descended and found themselves on a platform that was just slightly higher up than the main one. There was a smaller conveyor belt extending even further out away from the main platform just beside and above this one. However, they decided to go straight ahead. There was another platform, elevated just six feet higher than the one they were on, with a single ladder leading up to it rather than a staircase.

Bentley swiftly and easily jumped up and boosted his wheelchair up and onto the platform, while Murray quickly scaled the ladder. He was just at the top and about to pull himself over and onto the platform.

Suddenly, the extremely faint report of an explosion could be heard, and the entire factory started shaking. There was a low rumbling, and the entire building seemed to suddenly wobble on its foundations, like an earthquake had just struck with its epicenter directly beneath them. Looser equipment was rattling, and Bentley's chair was nearly rolling around on its own. Simultaneously with the deep rumbling and shaking, an alarm suddenly went off, the loud blaring sounding repeatedly, each one deep and stretched out for about two seconds, with a half-second pause between each one. Several red alarm lights flicked on all across the factory, spinning around wildly like a sped-up lighthouse, casting their eerie red glow on various areas of the factory in complete rotations.

As a result, Murray lost his grip on the ladder. In desperation, he reached out with a wild swing of his right hand, and grabbed a lever on the control panel nearest him, swiftly pulling it into the down position.

This unprecedented accident caused a very loud hum to sound, followed by a metallic rattling, as one of the conveyor belts nearby was started. Murray, realizing what had happened, released the lever and fell back onto the platform below, hitting with a loud metal clang.

Bentley looked around frantically at the many flashing lights, then down at Murray after he fell.

"Murray, get up! Quick!"

Murray propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. Initially, he couldn't see any sign of their follower. But the many flashing lights and rattling equipment were now providing even more sufficient cover for them, with the various sounds and movements serving as distractions.

However, as he glanced to the left at the nearby main path, he thought he saw a massive shadow disappear behind a thick metal crane.

He scrambled to his feet and wasted no time in jumping up onto the platform rather than climbing up the ladder again, and landed next to Bentley.

"What's happening here?" Murray asked nervously, glancing at the many red lights.

"Something set off the alarm!"

"Oh, no! Was it that lever I pulled?"

"No, it started before that. There was some kind of rumbling…"

Then, a few seconds later, there was yet another loud report, slightly more audible and clearly stronger than the first, and the entire building shook again. At this shaking, all of the regular lights in the factory suddenly winked off, some with small showers of sparks, instantly bathing the already borderline-pitch black factory in a pale, eerie shade of red. Murray stumbled to the left, sticking his hand out. He accidentally pressed three different buttons at once. All at once, three different things happened: A metal gate at the entrance of a small metal box on one of the conveyor belts lifted up, then slammed back down with a clang. At the same time, a nearby press slammed down onto the conveyor belt, then slowly lifted up.

"Murray, watch it! All of this mechanical activity could-."

Just then, there was a huge presence directly between them, having jumped down from an unseen platform higher up, landing directly between them, back to Bentley, facing Murray.

Murray, having just recovered from his last stumble, slowly looked up at the towering beast. It glared down at him with dead eyes.

Murray wasted no time in reacting, and quickly raised the Magnum to aim right between those dead eyes…

…only for the massive hand to swipe right in front of him and send the pistol flying out of his grip just as he was about to pull the trigger. It flew over the gap between the platforms and hit one of the control panels, the impact discharging one shot into the adjacent control panel, hitting right in the middle of a small keyboard and sending a shower of sparks flying with an electrical surge. A mechanical arm nearby started swerving side-to-side wildly. The gun, after the initial impact, bounced up and fell behind the control panel, landing on the small portion of platform right between the control panel and the abyss below. The barrel fell between one of the open rectangles in the grating, its much thicker chamber and handle being the only things keeping it from slipping through and into the abyss below.

Murray's hand recoiled from the sharp strike, his right hand clutching his left wrist. He grimaced, then looked up again.

He grabbed Murray around the throat, lifting him up into the air. Murray grabbed at the massive hand with both of his, struggling to get some air. He was lifted even higher up off the ground, the man staring hard through his own eyes.

As Murray gasped and struggled, he looked over the man's head at Bentley, who was slowly and cautiously wheeling backwards as he loaded up another sleeping dart. He slowly aimed the gun, and then fired.

Murray looked back down at his assailant, whose expression briefly changed as he registered the impact of the dart, and finally sprang into action. With a muffled yell, he swung both legs back, then thrust them forward and planted them on the man's chest, pushing off with a hard shove. The man granted and stumbled backward, releasing his grip and allowing Murray to fall free, landing on the ground safely on both feet.

Clutching his chest, he grunted briefly again, almost moving to the side in a brief falter. He reached one hand behind him to pull out the dart and toss it aside.

Murray took full advantage of this distraction and charged head-on, fists behind him. When he was close enough to his opponent, he swung his fists forward and slammed them both against the man's chest. He stumbled backward several more feet, allowing Murray to straighten up, jump up, and deliver a swift spinning kick to his chest. This blow finally knocked him down, sending him tumbling to the floor.

With wide eyes, he looked up at the ceiling blankly as if he had just been tranquilized, feigning temporary disablement.

Just as he expected, the hippo roared and leapt into the air, spinning around and spreading out all of his limbs, stomach facing down at him in one of the hippo's signature fighting moves.

At the last moment, he threw his body to the side and rolled out of the way, with Murray's Thunder Flop harmlessly hitting the metal floor. Wasting no time, he jumped to his feet, bent down, grabbed the hippo by the scarf and back of his neck with one hand, and his belt with the other hand, and yanked him off the floor. Turning to face the control panels, he swung his heavy load sideways and slammed him into the controls, smashing up numerous switches and sending shards of metal and spikes flying. Bentley cried out in terror, and aimed his sleeping dart gun once more.

However, the assailant anticipated this and swung the hippo back to the side, covering most of his torso. The dart, already fired, impacted into Murray's chest.

Bentley's eyes widened. "No!"

He grinned, then did a full 360-degree spin before releasing the hippo as he faced the direction of the main path. The hippo was flung from his grip and soared over the canyon between the two platforms, flying head-first towards it and barely managing to land on it due to it being slightly lower than the one that he was previously on. He hit the metal and slid across, the top of his head slamming into the base of one of the control panels. Unbeknownst to him, that very control panel was the only thing separating him and his lost pistol.

Now separated from his friend and guardian from this attacker, Bentley's fear shot up like a thermometer in molten lava.

"Murray! Murray, are you OK?"

The man slowly turned to face the turtle in the wheelchair. Bentley looked through his glasses and into those horrible eyes.

"…No…"

The man took a step.

"NO!" Bentley spun around as if on a motorcycle and instantly wheeled forward as fast as he could, away from his pursuer. He raced down the platform, the hunter slowly and steadily following his prey.

As Bentley wheeled with all of his might, his usual low amount of energy was now increased tenfold by the force of pure fear and adrenaline. His breathing was loud, quick, and raspy, but he lost track of all speed, breathing rate, and surroundings as only one thought dominated his mind: Run.

At one point, after he had jumped up one staircase, made another right turn, then a left, then down a staircase that led him to a platform much lower than the main one, he dared to look back.

There was no sign of his follower.

It took him a little more distance to slow down and finally stop, only turning his head around rather than his wheelchair as he looked around behind him. He paused and listened intently, trying to tune out the beating of his own heart, as well as his own deep breathing, and above all, that irritating alarm and those cursed flashing lights. He could not hear any ominous footsteps, nor could he see any movement. Even the few apparatuses of machinery that had been accidentally turned on back near where they first encountered him had dropped from view.

He looked around, then glanced up. The main path was above and to his left, too high up for his afterburners to reach. He looked down the path and saw a massive ladder stretching up to a platform about nine feet above, which then branched off into a small catwalk that ran under the main platform to the other side. He rolled back a little, then charged at it and activated his afterburner at the last moment, pressing the button once and boosting a couple feet into the air beyond his initial jump. He waited until he was at the very top of the arc for the first boost, then pressed the button a second time, boosting higher. He waited for a second, then pressed it a third and final time. By now, he was nearly at the top of the ladder. He reached out and meant to grab the edge of the platform itself, but his gloved hands slipped and he only caught the top rung.

With the two belts – one around his waist and one slung diagonally across his torso – keeping the chair from falling away beneath him, he hung there limply. The chair dangled down, its wheels extending to their fullest length on the accordion-like axles. He glanced down at the floor too far below now. He looked back up at the platform he was on, and reached one hand up further, sliding it across the safer metal floor. His fingers eventually slipped into one of the rectangular holes, and he dug them in further, maintaining a much firmer grip. He then slowly released his other hand from the rung and slid it further as well, finding another handhold.

Thus, he continued inching up delicately like this for about a minute before he was finally over the edge. He quickly straightened up and sat back in his comforting wheelchair, rolling away from the edge quickly. He looked back down at the platform below and still saw no sign of the man trailing him. He turned and quickly moved down the very narrow catwalk, underneath the main platform. Through the grated floor above him, the red lights cast down on him in hundreds of small rectangles. He looked above him, and still saw no sign of the man.

As he moved along, he glanced over the edge and into the abyss below. He still couldn't see the floor of the factory. However, he could now see something else. Just barely on the edge of the light, he thought he could see numerous massive circular outlines. Almost like the top of a ship's smokestack or a tunnel, these massive outlines had darkness both outside and inside them. But there were dozens, lining the area below. Clearly, they were some form of silo or funnel, all containing something…

He made it to the other side. At the end of the catwalk, he boosted up to the main platform with ease rather than ascending the small staircase and running around another small platform and taking the actual path. He was surrounded by more machinery, and there was a single conveyor belt still running parallel to the main platform on its left. However, further down, there was yet another massive metal box interrupting the belt, similar to the one that he and Murray had jumped onto to climb up higher. However, this one didn't have an opening at the conveyor belt. Instead, there was a small thin pipe sticking out and ending at a fairly large metal block that was situated between the pipe and the end of the conveyor belt. He moved down past the box, moving further into the factory.

He remembered what had led them here in the first place and glanced down at his right armrest. Just like before, the screen clearly displayed the signal emitted by Sly's communicator as being directly ahead.

However, he stopped and slowly turned around. Looking back down through the factory, past the flashing, spinning red lights and the blaring alarm, he remembered that Murray was still back there somewhere. And a heated battle was raging in his mind.

_Oh…should I go back? I can't leave Murray alone! But then again…Murray's perfectly capable of handling himself. He had plenty of time to get up while that…_thing_ was chasing me._

He strained to look harder through the darkness. He snapped his fingers and pressed a button on his left armrest, deploying the bino-cu-com. He then pressed a small button on the underside and to the right. Instantly, the regular view switched to its pale green and black night-vision version. There was still no distinct sign of Murray or the assassin. There were frantic flashes of green wherever the lights spun into his field of view, but that was it.

With a mumble, he pressed the same button again, deactivating the night-vision, and then pressed a button right next to the previous one. The regular vision switched to an infrared version, with various colors such as red, blue, and black now dominating his vision. The black surrounded him on all sides and above, representing the dark, empty space, with the blue beneath him and immediately around him representing the cold metal. Peering hard into the distance and zooming in, he thought he could see some white shapes in the distance. However, one was large and long, with three smaller appendages sticking out from the end. It was moving frantically back and forth, animated with life and hot with electricity. A loose crane arm. Just below it, there was a consistent blur of white and red, spurting it out like a fire hydrant.

No sign of Murray or the man.

Sighing, Bentley shut off the infrared vision and retracted the bino-cu-com. He glanced down at the small screen on the right armrest of his chair, with the dot representing Sly's communicator still ahead, slightly to the left.

He glanced back in the direction where he had last seen either of the two, and still saw nothing. It was clearly useless to run around the factory any longer, desperately searching for either of them. There was a perfect 50-50 chance of him running into that man instead of Murray. Besides, Murray was clearly more capable of handling this threat than he was. All that was left to do was continue on as planned. Rendezvous with Sly, then find Murray, and then try to find Penelope in this place.

Slowly turning around, he began moving further through the factory, honing in on Sly's signal.

_Wherever you are, Murray…watch your back._

…

Murray slowly recovered from the blow, spots dancing in his vision and the red lights flashing in his periphery. All the while, the blaring alarm seared through his thoughts as he slowly lifted himself up and looked around.

He was back on the main platform, his face directly against a control panel. He slowly reached up and started to grab it, then remembered how he had accidentally pulled a lever and hit two buttons before. He pulled his hands lower to grab the actual edge of the panel rather than among the controls, and pulled himself to his feet. He stood up, placed a hand on his back, and arched his back with a crack and a groan. He winced, then slowly opened his eyes and glanced side-to-side. He then spun around to face the direction he had been thrown from.

The attacker was gone. And so was Bentley.

Murray did a quick spin, scanning his entire environment for any sign of movement. He noticed that a control panel right next to the one he had hit was damaged, sparks shooting out of it, wires protruding, and pieces of debris on the floor in front of it. A crane arm beyond the panels was spinning wildly side-to-side as a result, recklessly moving around with nothing to stop it.

He glanced back to the right sharply when he thought he saw a shape disappear behind a console. For a few long moments he stared intently at the object, daring for it to come out from behind.

Nothing.

Then another shadow darted under the edge of the platform on his left. He jumped to the side, away from where he had seen it, and raised his fists.

Nothing.

He then slowly looked up at the nearest red light, spinning around repeatedly. Wherever the light wasn't, there was darkness. As the light moved, it chased the shadows around in endless rotations, casting them all around and making them appear to be in motion.

Murray's head was spinning. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his left hand, sighing as he realized that he was just seeing things.

Nevertheless, the fact still remained: That killer was somewhere in this factory.

Murray slowly lowered his hand from his forehead and adjusted his belt. He dropped his hands to his sides, clenching them tightly in his fists. He could faintly hear the stretching of the leather of his gloves as he squeezed.

He slowly advanced along the platform.

As he walked along, he constantly swiveled his head side to side, back and forth, scanning the area around him, remaining ever alert, his senses heightened by the feeling of danger, the adrenaline shooting through his system, the heating of his blood…and the omnipresent feeling of fear.

Everywhere he looked, however, there was nothing but pure darkness. Emptiness. Endless void, surrounding on all sides. The only source of illumination came from the dozens of red lights spinning around at various locations along the path. There was also that extremely irritating alarm. While not particularly shrill, high-pitched, or anything immediately painful to listen to, it was certainly consistent and loud, and also prevented him from being able to audibly detect the crouching predator somewhere in this jungle of metal and technology.

His thoughts racing faster than a race car, the flashing red lights switching between light and dark all around him, the blaring alarm sounding as if it was right in his ears, and that itching sensation of fear tugging at his mind and making his heart beat furiously…all of this contributed to his slowly-growing state of delirium. Shadows continued dancing around him, all seeming exactly the same but all seeming capable of being the man that he was hunting…

…Or was he hunting _him_?

Suddenly, the floor fell away from him, and he was up in the air, the lights spinning around even faster as, he soon realized, _he_ started spinning. The ceiling was directly in front of him, and then the platform was in front of him, the alarm still blaring…

Then he caught a glimpse of the man who had grabbed him from behind and heaved him up into the air. He was standing below him, looking up at him and waiting for him to come back down so that he could deliver another blow.

In a split second, Murray recollected his thoughts and his senses, and waited for gravity to take hold of him. Once he felt himself start to fall back down, he straightened out his limbs, closed his legs firmly together, and closed his eyes. As he fell, he fell straight down, feet pointing to the floor.

He slowly spun around as he drew closer to the ground. Once he knew that he was facing his attacker, he let out a loud roar and stuck out his right leg, spinning around in a full circle and delivering a swift spinning kick. He felt the hard impact of his foot against the side of the man's head, and he knew that he had caught him off-guard. He opened his eyes just as he landed on the metal floor, leaning forward and planting his palms on the floor in front of him to land in a crouching position as he finally touched down. He looked to the right and saw the man stumbling aside, one hand clutching the side of his head where Murray had kicked him.

Murray sprang into action instantly, leaping to his feet and charging at the man. He grabbed him, wrapping his arms around his chest, and pushed him further until he slammed into a control console. He then leaned back and started delivering swift punches in rapid succession, one after the other, repeatedly striking the man's face again and again. However, he had barely got in five or six punches before the man's tree limbs of arms swung up and grabbed Murray's wrists, flinging him aside and sending him sprawling across the metal for several yards.

By the time Murray got back to his feet, the man was already upon him, grabbing him by his shoulders and lifting him up, pinning his arms down as well. He then spun Murray around in his arms and slammed him onto the floor beside him. Murray, lying on the floor and facing the ceiling, had his head right up against the man's left foot.

The man, looking down at Murray like a stain on a carpet, lifted up his left foot slowly.

Murray instantly rolled out of the way just as the man's foot slammed down on the metal. Murray, now lying on his stomach, quickly pushed himself up off the floor and stepped backwards, feeling the rush of air as the man's right hook barely missed him. Murray charged at him with another spinning kick just as he reached him, but the man stuck his hands out and grabbed Murray by the foot as he was about to hit him. He lifted Murray's foot up higher than Murray could hold it, and pulled Murray's other foot out from under him as a result. Murray fell backwards and the back of his head slammed against the metal. The man still had him by the foot, and slowly started to drag him backwards. Then he swung around and, just as he had lifted Murray up off the floor, he released his grip on Murray's foot and sent him flying ahead on the path even further.

Murray was in a daze now, the hits and the throws and the pain starting to kick in. The thumping of the man's footsteps grew louder, and they were the only thing that motivated Murray enough to get up even through the pain. He wobbled briefly as he staggered to his feet, and managed to stand straight up as he stared down the approaching attacker.

Murray, with no further motivation to attack, instead decided to finally take the alternative that he never imagined that he'd have to take.

Run.

Murray turned around and started to run down the platform, equipment passing him by on all sides. His running wasn't exactly that; the pain that had been building up all this time, particularly with that last hit where the man gripped his ankle rather tightly, had reduced his running down to a steadier pace, held back by a noticeable limp.

He looked back and saw that the man still steadily approaching him, obviously not at the same physical disadvantage that Murray was. But, for whatever reason, he was still approaching at a slower pace that was clearly not the fastest that he could go. Almost as if he wanted to taunt Murray, chasing him as slowly as he could just to make the chase more agonizing.

Nevertheless, Murray continued on, limping along as he looked for a place where he could possibly throw his pursuer off his trail.

The first thing that he thought of was the massive conveyor belt, running parallel to the platform. He figured that if he could start it up and jump onto it, he could continue moving along with the aid of the belt itself, which would give him some kind of head start and better widen the distance between them.

When he reached the nearest control panel, he started rapidly flipping switches, pressing buttons, and turning dials. Lights flickered on, sounds started up in an orchestra of hums, whirs, and clicks, and there was a creaking sound as the conveyor belt slowly started up. Murray first jumped onto one of the control panels, stepping on a keyboard and breaking it, and then leapt up onto the conveyor belt.

However, landing on an already-moving belt – combined with his limp – caused Murray to stumble, lose his footing, and fall backwards onto the belt with a thud, staring up at the ceiling as it passed by…

…moving down his vision rather than up.

It took Murray a few moments to realize that he was not moving along in the direction he had intended to, but was actually moving _backwards_.

He quickly scrambled to get back up, standing on the belt and steadying his balance, careful to avoid falling to the left and into the abyss below. Standing up, he saw the metal platform and all of the equipment rolling past him, moving further away.

He spun around…

…only for a massive hand to suddenly grab his face and cover his field of vision.

As two of his hands instantly grabbed the massive hand in an attempt to pull it off, he felt himself being lifted up and flung up over the attacker and slammed down onto the other side of him, landing on the conveyor belt with a thud, followed by a rattle that trailed off as the entire apparatus shook from the force of the impact.

The hand pulled away, and Murray looked up at the man towering over him like a specter. As he started to crawl to his feet, the man grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him forward, sending him sliding along the conveyor belt, moving with the speed of the belt, and sliding further ahead.

It was then, as Murray finally got a good look in the direction that he was involuntarily moving in, that he realized what was ahead of him.

A massive metal box, similar to the one they had passed by earlier, at the end of the belt that _did_ move towards the end of the factory. This one was like a reflection of the first; sitting at the end of the conveyor belt that moved in the opposite direction. And right at the end of the conveyor belt was a large hole in the side of he box, slightly leaning out over the end of the belt, like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow up whatever rolled into it.

The other occupant of the belt, seeing his opportunity to finally eliminate this meddlesome annoyance, kneeled down as the next control panel rolled by. He casually flicked every single switch, eventually pulling the one lever that activated the melting process.

As he flicked the lever, a sinister orange glow emitted from the mouth, with a massive, fearsome flame clearly visible inside.

Murray's eyes widened. A slight upward curve at one corner of the man's mouth was barely visible.

As Murray got to his hands and knees, he could hear the man's footsteps approaching him rapidly. He sprang up and spun around with a vicious right hook, swinging blindly and clipping the man's chin.

Barely fazed, the man rubbed his chin with one hand.

The slight and casual movement distracted Murray as the man's other hand swung around with an equally vicious punch, connecting with Murray's jaw and sending him spinning around, falling right back onto the conveyor belt once more, this time landing on his back.

In an instant, the man was directly over Murray, kneeling down on top of him, and both of his hands firmly gripped Murray's neck and kept his head pressed against the conveyor belt as it rolled along. Murray once again tried to slip his hands in between his own neck and the man's hand, barely managing to pry one of the fingers and free up some space. He gasped and sucked in a quick breath of air, then leaned his head back as far as he could to see how much closer the furnace was.

There was probably no more than twenty feet between his head and the burning furnace.

Now genuinely afraid, Murray began thrashing wildly, desperately trying to free himself from the man's iron grip. His eyes darted all over, searching frantically for something that could get him out of this tight spot. He could hear the roaring of the fire, feel the heat slowly approaching…

He then remembered one of his older moves. The only move that he could possibly use to get out of this certain death situation.

Removing his hands from the man's larger hand, he raised them up above his own head slowly, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, and then slowly exhaling.

He could still feel himself moving forward, he could still hear the steady rattling of the conveyor belt, and he could still feel the heat from behind slowly approaching. It must be very close now…

He then swiftly clapped his hands together above his head with all his might, activating the fire-emitting pads built into his gloves and instantly setting the gloves on fire. The material they were made out of had a special, fire-retardant covering that could burn endlessly without causing damage.

The man glanced at the hippo's now-burning hands, and a brief look that resembled shock and disbelief appeared on his face. This was certainly something he had not seen before, nor had he expected.

Murray then quickly brought both hands up, swiping them in together at the man's face.

Impulsively, the man jerked his head back to avoid the flaming hands swiping at him. They both missed his face by inches, with the wave of heat briefly warming his flesh and making his fur stand on end, and then submit to a rush of cold air as they moved farther away from his face.

He looked ahead at the furnace, now barely four feet away. It was just a little bit longer…

He then looked down to see both flaming hands now moving towards his own hand, still gripping the hippo's neck.

Using one of his own techniques, he closed his eyes and firmly, mentally shut out all other feeling in his body, with the exception of hearing the rickety conveyor belt move steadily along, surely delivering his prey to a fiery demise…

…Fiery…

It was then that he felt the stinging, burning pain clasp around his entire hand, enveloping it in unimaginable heat and pain.

He tried his hardest to ignore the pain, to control it, and use it as motivation to hold the hippo there for just a little bit longer…

He opened his eyes to see how much closer the furnace was.

Two feet.

He then allowed his eyes to drop down at his own hand, where he saw the flaming gloves wrapped around it like a towel, the hippo's angry glare looking right up into his own eyes.

Seeing the fire on his own hand finally broke his will, and he released the hippo's neck instantly, yanking his hand out of the hippo's fiery grip and leapt backwards.

Murray instantly took advantage of this and leapt to his feet just as he was about to reach the open mouth of the furnace. He turned to the right and leapt off the conveyor belt, landing first on his feet, then dropping and rolling over on the metal floor to better absorb the impact. He rolled for a bit before stopping and quickly glancing back up at the conveyor belt.

He was gone.

Scrambling to his feet, he looked around frantically, searching for a glimpse of the man darting behind a console, or a shadow racing across the platform, or something. But the flashing lights, the blaring alarm, and the moving apparatuses prevented any decent discernment from his target and the numerous distractions.

Then, suddenly, he felt a blinding blow smash into the back of his head, sending him tumbling forward and slamming to the metal floor face-first, harsh stabs of pain searing through both the back of his head and the front. Stars danced in his vision, which was fading in and out repeatedly.

Then he felt two strong grips grab his shoulders, lift him up, and hurl him to the side. All that he saw before he impacted was the control panel that he was flying straight towards. He landed with a rapid crunching of metal, an electric sizzling, and shards and sparks flying. He could feel the rectangular console bend inward towards where he lay directly in the middle.

His mind barely there, his eyes fluttered open enough for him to glance at the small area of platform between the railing and the back of the console, where a very familiar handgun lay.

Just as his mind registered this sudden revelation, he could hear a strange, loud, heavy metal clanging, along with the hard, menacing footsteps slowly approaching.

With a weak effort, he slowly lifted one hand up along the smashed console, attempting to reach for the pistol below him.

Then he was jerked away.

His attacker once again behind him, he expected the two hard hands to grab his shoulders again. This time, however, the grip that took him was much stronger and colder. He felt the presence suddenly wrap around his neck. He looked down just enough to see what it was.

A chain.

Behind him, the man took the sharp hooked end and wrapped it around the chain just above the hippo's head several times, then stuck the tip of the hook right through one of the links, securing it. He then spun the hippo around and struck him swiftly in the face once more.

As Murray stumbled backwards to the ground, he could hear the sound of the heavy chain rattling around his neck. He could see it tightening as he dragged it out further away from its nearby source: A massive winch, with dozens and dozens of yards of this chain wrapped around it, and a single lever at the side. Extending from the winch was the crane, bent at a perfect 90-degree angle, the chain strung up through it in a pulley system.

He then watched in dazed, mute horror as the man approached the lever, gave the hippo a blank stare which somewhat conveyed a message of triumph, and then flipped the lever down.

The pulley started, and the winch began slowly rotating, retracting the chain along it and up the crane arm. It started tightening, the slack rapidly decreasing as it began lifting up.

Murray mustered all of his strength and grabbed at the chain around his neck with both hands, furiously trying to pry it off. The segment of chain between him and the end of the crane arm was rising, its slanted angle becoming much more vertical…

He continued prying away, his fingers seemingly too large to get between the chain and his neck.

Then he could feel his body being dragged. The chain was starting to pull his large body across the metal floor, towards the winch and crane. He tried to resist, but the mechanism was too strong, even for him. His head was facing away from the crane and winch, but the strength of the pulling chain slowly spun his body around on the floor like a dial in a rather ridiculous manner. Once his head was facing the arm's direction, he started sliding along the floor, dragging backwards towards certain death.

As he continued his valiant struggle, he could hear, among the cranking and rattling of the winch, the thick footsteps once more. He could see the massive man walking back towards him, turning and looking directly at him as he slid past. The look in those eyes was impossible to read. The slight hint of triumph from earlier had vanished. Now it was just a blank stare.

Then the floor started pulling away. He could feel his body slanting upward as he was slowly pulled into the air. Suddenly, the cold, hard presence of the metal floor seemed much more comforting and a better alternative to what was happening now.

He planted both feet firmly on the floor, quickly standing straight up and creating some brief slack in the chain as he righted himself to gain a better grip on the chain. However, he soon felt the chain tightening again, and his feet slowly skid backwards as he tried to stay in place. Soon, he was finally lifted up off the floor completely. He started kicking wildly as he was lifted up into the air, the chain tightening around his neck. He could feel the flow of air suddenly stop, and he panicked. Both hands were furiously scraping at the chain, attempting to pull it open before it was too late…

…then he was at the top of the crane. The tip of the arm was just above his head, and he himself would've been pulled right into it and had his skull crushed had it not been for the knot that the man had tied in the chain just above him. The hook and the looped sections of the chain were caught up in the shaft at the tip of the crane arm, jamming it and halting its retraction. The brief jerk shook Murray for a moment, jolting him up, slamming the top of his head into the arm of the crane, then falling and hanging back down again. The winch tried to progress, but the knot was too large to fit through the shaft. After a moment, the cranking started to become ragged, jerking violently repeatedly as it tried to pull the obstruction through. Eventually, there was a loud, shattering crash as the mechanism failed. The winch broke, shifted briefly out of place, and the chain ceased its movement. The crane arm seemed to list ever so slightly to the side, but showed no immediate signs of falling out of place.

And, hanging at the top of the crane, the hippo remained absolutely motionless.

Down below, the man knew that his job here was done. Finally, the elusive and seemingly indestructible hippo was dead.

With the slightest shakes of his head, he turned around, facing down the long metal platform and into the darkness. He knew that, somewhere down at the other end of the factory, there was an elevator that served as the one and only other way out of this factory.

That was surely where he'd find the turtle.

He began advancing through the factory.

**To be continued…**


	21. The Battle: Part I

The Battle: Part I

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 10:29 P.M…_

Hans stood by, about a dozen yards from the Second Clockwerk, watching as his superior's mouth moved so frantically, with the occasional pumping of a fist, or swiping of his arm, or slamming of a fist into an open palm. He moved so energetically, and probably spoke so powerfully and charismatically. Even if he didn't hear a single word of what he spoke, he knew that his master's words were surely inspirational. The entire time, he was standing on the back of the Second Clockwerk, with a hatch in the top wide open and ready for him to enter.

Finally, when his master had finished speaking, he turned and climbed down into the open hatch. For about two minutes, there was absolutely nothing. No movement, no vibrations. Then the hatch on top slid closed. Then there was a low hum. It started low, barely a tremor in Hans' feet. Then it grew larger and harder and deeper, reverberating throughout all of Hans' body, and all throughout the hangar, vibrating the metal walls and the bodies of all other men in the hangar.

Then the two massive yellow eyes lit up, becoming even brighter and more piercing, as if staring straight through your soul. Both cast two twin beams of blinding light, which shot out over the ranks of men and through the open hangar door, like two spotlights.

The hum grew louder still. Then the talons slowly extended, pushing up higher and higher to lift the main bulk of the body off of the hangar floor. The wings, still drooping down over the floor, slowly started to move. Like a ripple, the movement shot down from the base of the wings all the way down to the wingtips. Both wings slowly lifted up, flapping lightly and weakly, before settling back down again.

The hum was extraordinarily loud now, and he could almost see the walls shaking right down to their foundations. The Clockwerk slowly started to take life. A grin spread across his face.

Then there was a sudden flicker of movement at the corner of Hans' eye, separate from the wings flapping. Turning his head ever so slightly, the grin suddenly vanished when he saw a shape disappear behind the right wing, just beyond the massive platoon standing on his left. After a moment, he could see the figure emerge again briefly on top of the wing. It started advancing towards the body of Clockwerk just as it slowly started to lift off, the engines now moving in a steady hum, not audible to Hans, but a steady vibration that he could feel reverberating through his body and throughout the hangar.

It wasn't an immediately recognizable figure, and it wasn't immediately clear what it was. To someone with an average eye, it wouldn't have even registered. No one else seemed to notice it. But Hans, with his exceptional vision to make up for his loss of hearing, could just barely see it. It appeared to be semi-invisible, whatever it was. It was a patch of empty space that seemed to take shape, that seemed to move, the only clear thing that made it appear out of the ordinary being a slight outline that seemed to bend between what was really there and whatever the shape was. As the semi-invisible figure advanced up the wing, Hans could now make out the entire outline, the exact shape of the figure. Most prominently, he recognized the long, bushy tail waving behind it, and the long, familiar hook-shaped object, also semi-invisible, in its hand.

The first thought that shot through Hans' mind was summarized into one word.

_Impossible_.

His intellect and pride told him that it couldn't be. There was no way. He had gone down the waste disposal chute, into the molten lava. There was no way. No way at all…

But his instinct told him that he wasn't just seeing things. He trusted his eyes just as much as he trusted his senses of feeling and smelling.

He instantly advanced towards the wing, moving swiftly as it started to lift up, and brushing past guards who remained firmly at attention. Just as it swooped down in a wave motion for the first time, Hans leapt up onto it as the tip was on the ground again. He wavered briefly as it rose up again in another flapping motion, but ultimately found his footing and slowly advanced across the massive wing, towards the figure that was now directly on Clockwerk's back. Hans barely faltered, even when the entire frame of the machine lifted up and became free of gravity, slowly rising majestically into the air. He looked down and saw all of the soldiers, still standing rigidly at attention and now saluting as the massive machine rose into the air.

There was a pause. Hans braced himself by crouching down on all fours and firmly gripping the ridges in the wing, preparing for the fast take-off. Even his steel grip barely managed to hang on as the massive bird flew right through the open door. The great machine flew out into the night sky, leaving the hangar behind, and rising up and moving further and further above the massive facility. Hans slowly stood up.

Suddenly, there was a massive orange blast to his left, just at the edge of his periphery. At the same time, there was a low rumbling that, although he could not hear it and although it was far below him, shook his whole body, reverberating clearly in and around him, the sheer force of it amazing. Curious, he briefly turned his attention away from the figure and looked down, behind and below the Second Clockwerk. He saw the entire hangar that they had just left behind be completely engulfed by flames, with the already-planted explosives at all four corners of the building's foundations going off simultaneously with a signal set off by the Clockwerk's departure through the door.

The blasts of orange spread out a considerable length, almost completely consuming the entire base of the building. As expected, the explosions at all four corners disrupted the building's stability, blowing out all pillars supporting it and weakening the metal walls. As planned, the entire portion of the building above the area destroyed by the explosions started to come straight down in a manner reminiscent of a controlled demolition. It came down fast, crushing the already-weakened areas at and below the blast radius. As it came down, it became even weaker, falling apart and crumbling in on itself, all of the debris tumbling straight down within the already-burning remains of the building. The roof was the last to go, crumbling in towards the center of the building and falling inward like all of the other debris.

The entire time, not a single guard or scientist within the building escaped, and the explosions, the fires, and falling debris ensured that none of them survived.

He had never seen anything like it before. He didn't understand it for a moment. Then he realized. His master must have been planning this. He must have planned to kill all of the men once they were all inside the hangar, and that would've included him. After all, those explosions certainly were not coincidental. He knew a controlled demolition when he saw one. He realized now how lucky he was. Had he not seen the mysterious figure and climbed up onto the wing…

He then remembered the figure. He looked back at the back of the Clockwerk. For now, all he could do was exterminate the intruder. Then, perhaps, he could get the attention of the Commander inside the Clockwerk, and perhaps get him to let him in. Then his so-called master would pay for his intended betrayal. After all that Hans had done for him, being unquestionably loyal, always dutiful, and looking up to his leader with admiration and respect…Oh, yes. He would pay.

He returned his attention to the person who was now on his hands and knees on the back of the mighty Clockwerk, barely holding on as he attempted to find a way in. Hans stopped a few feet away, looking down at the small raccoon. He had his Cane in his hand, the bright golden hook at the end jammed into the crack between the hatch and the rest of the frame as he attempted to force it open.

Then, there was another brilliant flash out of Hans' periphery. He turned once more, but not before noticing as the figure also looked in the direction of the flash, turning his back completely to Hans.

The massive mouth of the Clockwerk was wide open, and a large ball of bright blue and white light had formed inside the mouth. Now that ball was emitting a single long beam, which was aimed down at the burning remains of the hangar. Both men watched as the beam shot straight down and impacted into the ground directly in the middle of the burning foundation. Upon the beam's contact with the ground, a second explosion ensued, this one much brighter and forcing Hans to wince and raise a hand to cover his view of the explosion. The ball of white light rapidly grew and spread out in all directions, enveloping the remains for a second time in a much more thorough explosion. The force of this one was even greater than the previous one, and Hans could feel the powerful vibration rattle his body, even causing him to stumble to the side. The crouched figure on the Clockwerk's back was also stunned, and fell to the side. Hans, seeing this, took full advantage of this opportunity and charged at the figure.

With a grin, he delivered a swift kick to the raccoon, who never even saw it coming.

The first thing that Sly felt was the sudden rush of wind from his gut as something powerful slammed him in the stomach and knocked him to the side. He rolled over along the sleek metal back, coming to a stop a few feet from the joints between the body and the left wing. After a brief coughing fit, he glanced up at his attacker, who wore a cocky grin as he looked down at him. Sly could conclude, from the sharpness and firmness of the blow, that those boots were steel-toed.

Sly immediately started to scramble to his feet, only for the boot to swipe him again, this time connecting with his jaw. Sly flew to the left and slid down even more, now finding himself barely touching the joints connecting the wing to the torso, most prominently the single long shaft that rotated up and down as the wings flapped. Sly instantly scurried back, then raised his fist as he spun around.

The coyote reached down and simply grabbed his fist before he could hit him. With unbelievable strength, he lifted Sly right up off of his knees and level to his face. With his free hand, he delivered two sharp blows to Sly's stomach before instantly swirling around to throw him down onto the wing. Sly landed hard on his back, groaning. Before he had time to react, he could feel his whole body rising and falling as the wing flapped up and down beneath him. He could barely stay on the cold metal, feeling for the ridges in the wings for a good grip. He glanced over at his opponent, standing on the relative safety and stability of Clockwerk's back.

Sly rolled over when the wing hit the bottom of its movement, quickly feeling for another ridge as he was now lying on his stomach. He waited through the next two flaps, then stood up again. He stumbled briefly, still stinging from the pain of the last few blows. He hadn't been in such an intense physical confrontation quite like this in four years. He spread his legs slightly and stiffened them, maintaining a firm battle stance. The attacker raised his fists in a similar stance.

Sly instantly leapt off the wing, jumping towards the attacker in a sudden pounce. Hans had to raise his arms to grab Sly as he flung his whole body at him. Sly instantly swung his fist at the man's face once, striking him in the cheek. He tried again, but Hans, with a firm grip on his sides, simply spun him around like a baton, bringing him down and slamming him onto the cold metal surface once more.

This time, Sly was more prepared. As he lied on his back, he instantly spun himself around, swinging his leg out and hitting the man's leg. He hooked his foot behind the man's knee and pulled, yanking his leg out from under him. Hans slipped backwards and landed on his back. Sly jumped to his feet and ran over to where his cane was still lodged firmly in place. Snatching it up, he raised it in an offensive position, almost like a baseball bat, before he swung straight down and brought the hook down on the man's gut once, then again. The third hit was directed at his face. The coyote rolled onto his side, howling in pain. Sly raised the cane again for a fourth blow.

Suddenly, Hans kicked his legs out and knocked Sly's legs out from under him as well. Sly tumbled and hit the metal again, barely holding onto his cane. Then he felt two powerful hands grab him by the shirt and lift him up, then slamming him down again. He felt the boot kick him in the side, sending a splitting pain through his ribcage.

As Hans raised his boot again, Sly rolled off to the side, and the boot swung up into the air. Sly instantly swung his cane up and hooked his boot. Sly leapt to his feet while Hans struggled to get his boot out, only for the steel-toed tip to be stuck on the hook of Sly's cane. Taking advantage of this, Sly instantly raised the cane up as high as he could, lifting Hans' leg up more than he could handle. The large man instantly fell backwards, his boot finally freeing itself from Sly's cane. Sly swung his cane down again, bringing it down onto his lower stomach three times. Hans scrambled to his feet, even despite a swift blow to the side, and crawled out onto the wild and unstable wing once more. He stood and turned back to Sly, raising his fists once more, his grin daring Sly to come after him.

Sly glanced back at the hatch he had been attempting to pry open, then back at Hans. He knew that he could never get in with this guy on his back. So, against his inner will, he started out onto the wing.

Sly took a moment to adjust to the instability once more before he advanced again towards Hans, cane raised.

Hans charged forward and unleashed a wild spinning kick. Sly ducked and shot his fist forward, hitting the man's stomach. Hans instantly clamped down on Sly's fist with both hands. Sly simply used his other hand, holding his cane, to strike him in the chest twice. The sudden blows winded Hans, who released Sly's hand instantly. Sly then pulled out one of his old tricks: A smoke bomb. Raising it high, he brought it down and threw it against the metal, instantly unleashing the cloud of smoke.

Hans coughed as he inhaled the terribly thick black smoke, his senses briefly disoriented as he was engulfed. He tried swatting away some of the smoke, only for a familiar hook to swipe in out of the fog and hook his hand. Then an arm reached out and also took hold of the hand, then instantly jerked him forward, sending him stumbling forward and landing on his face. He took a hard blow due to the wing rising from another flap at that moment, slamming into his face with a meaty smack.

Hans rolled over just in time to see the figure leap out of the clearing smoke and on top of him, planting his feet firmly on him. He raised his cane high, arms stiff and firm, as he prepared for a final blow.

Hans, however, simply grinned. He then took hold of his rival's ankles, just above the blue boots, and with all his might, heaved up and tossed his hands behind him. Sly instantly flew forward, sliding along the metal for a moment, then falling right off the front of the wing.

Hans twisted his head around to see that, sure enough, they had been barely three feet from the edge of the wing. He had one final glimpse of the blue blur disappearing over the edge as he fell.

Hans, satisfied with himself, slowly got to his feet as the wing dipped down again, brushing himself off. He took another step forward, towards the edge, and leaned casually over to get a good view of the raccoon's body falling to earth. He was briefly stunned at how high they were now. The men below were like ants. The summit of the volcano had to be at least 200…

Suddenly, just as the wing started to descend in another flap, he could see a gray and blue blur fly out from directly underneath the wing, taking full advantage of the drop in level of the wing and Hans, soaring over him even higher as the wing lowered beneath him. Hans didn't even have time to turn around before he could feel the hard wood smack him in the back. This blow, however, was harder than anything he had felt. It was delivered with such fury and force that he could feel a sickening _CRACK._

Hans howled in pain again, attempting to turn around to face his attacker. As he did so, the cane swung out again, slamming into his right side and sending him tumbling sideways. He landed hard and skidded a few feet. He tried to harness enough strength to lift himself up, but the aching was too terrible. Then he felt another thunderous blow in his side, resulting in yet another snapping sound as one of his ribs was broken. Then, he could feel the familiar hook wrap itself around his foot. He glanced down just in time to finally see the raccoon: He was breathing heavily, angrier than ever, holding the cane like a golf club and just in the process of yanking up and lifting his foot, and entire leg, up.

With another lift, he tossed Hans' legs up sideways over himself, the sudden gathering of weight sending Hans rolling even further down the wing, heading for the very tip. He tried to get a firm grip on the ridges, but he felt the hook grab him again, this time by the waist, and lift him up once more, sending him tumbling. The sudden incline and acceleration as he fell instantly made him realize that he was now on the very tip.

Hans slid around as he fell, now facing up at his attacker. He stretched his arms out and dug his claws into the metal surface as he fell. He could suddenly feel the surface drop out from beneath his feet.

Just then, his fingers caught on the rough ridges, and he held on with a death grip as he could feel his legs below the knees dangling freely. Here at the tip of the wing, the rise and fall of the wing as it flapped was greater than ever, jerking hard as it rising, then falling, rising, then falling. He could barely keep his claws in place with every flap. He knew that he had to get back up. But at the same time, he was afraid to move his arms for even a second. The flaps put more strain on his arms, and he could feel his grip start to weaken…

Hans then lifted his head up once more and saw Sly standing above him, legs firmly planted on the surface of the wing, surprisingly firm as the wing constantly dropped beneath him. His fur and clothes were blowing in the wind, his cane at his side, and a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. Sly was glaring down at him with extreme hatred burning in his eyes. Even despite their difference in size, Hans truly felt fear at seeing him this angry, towering over him like a statue.

His brief distraction allowed the next flap to jostle his grip loose. He slid further, and in a split second, regained his concentration and dug his fingertips deep into the metal surface. He could feel even more of his body slide down the wing, now with the lower half of his body no longer pressed against the comforting metal. Just as his lower stomach dropped free, he gained a new grip on one of the last ridges in the wing, the veins in his hands bulging, his knuckles white, and his fingertips sore from how hard he gripped this final ridge, knowing that the few after it – even if he did manage to grab one – would not provide a sufficient grip.

Hans groaned, half out of strain and half out of fear. He could feel the throaty, scratchy vibration of the sound on his esophagus. He briefly cracked his head to the side and looked down. He was impossibly high up now, with the very sight of the ground – the gray buildings of the facility now like a series of gray patches on the dark surface – making him sick and catapulting his fear as high up in his mind as he was high up off the ground.

The next flap finally did it. Before Hans even knew it, his fingers had been jolted up and out of the ridge, and he was sliding down again. His eyes widened in terror and he scrambled for another grip.

He never got one.

And then, before he knew it, he was no longer touching the firm, cold metal. He was falling. He couldn't see much, with the exception of the massive steel beast above him, fast growing further and further away from him, as there was only dark sky around him, hardly a single cloud in sight. He could also feel the wind whipping against his body as he fell, ruffling his clothes and his fur. He could also feel the fast and strange sensation of his stomach dropping, a sudden feeling of emptiness overtaking him as he fell freely and fast. But he could not hear anything. He could not hear the wind rushing past his ears. Nor could he hear his own screaming as he plunged to his death.

Sly stood firmly, watching in mute triumph as Hans finally lost his grip and slid down the rest of the way, falling off the wing and plummeting straight to earth. His scream grew fainter and fainter, until there was eventually nothing more to be heard.

Sly sighed, then turned and walked back across the wing, still rising and falling treacherously, getting as far away from the edges as possible and returning to the central body of the beast. Soon, he was on its back once more, no longer rising and falling as the wings flapped.

With his opponent gone, Sly finally got the chance to take a good look around him. He now saw that the Clockwerk had risen well above the ground, and seemed to be over 700 feet into the air, but nonetheless still circling the facility below.

Sly scanned the flat metal surface once and soon saw the small, barely discernable cracks in the metal where the obvious hatch leading inside was. He kneeled down next to it and raised his Cane high above his head, the hook aimed down at the crack beneath him. Even though, deep down, Sly knew that it was a meaningless gesture, he had to get in somehow.

He brought the Cane down onto the crack, twisting the hook deep into the narrow slit. He then started to pull back, attempting to break it open.

Suddenly, there was a startling lurch. Sly stumbled backwards, leaving the Cane lodged in the fissure. He landed on his back and realized that the sheet of metal on one side of the crack was moving. After a moment, his Cane fell right through the now much larger crack and vanished. He could hear it clatter on a metal floor below. Sly scrambled to get to his feet and made for the hole. He jumped straight down into it and instantly transitioned from the dark night around him to a slightly brighter metal room, a cold air blowing through it. He landed on his feet and jumped right back up. He saw his Cane in front of him and swiped it up. He looked up above him and saw the metal hatch slide shut once more with a thud. Now, the stars of the sky above were gone, as was the sound of the blowing wind.

Instead, a new sound could be heard.

Laughter.

"Welcome, Cooper."

Sly spun around to the direction of the voice. He saw a massive control panel in front of him. The entire wall opposite was lined with switches, buttons, and screens. There was a single large chair in front of it. In the wall just above the panels were the two massive, round, piercing yellow eyes. Through them, he could see the world outside.

Standing next to the chair was Vlotho.

"I must give you credit, Cooper. Surviving that waste disposal chute was something I thought even a man of your talents could not accomplish. Making it out of the crater, however you did it, truly must have pushed you to the limit of your skills. Sneaking into the hangar undetected was impressive as well. But why did you have to kill poor Hans like that?"

"A better question would be, why did you kill all of your henchmen? Everyone in that hangar was killed in that explosion, we both know that. Why?"

"In the end, true power can only be trusted to one person and one person only. Many of my past lives had their downfall by trusting someone else with the same great knowledge that they were gifted with. But not me, oh no, not me. All of those scientists knew the structure, the design, the special abilities, and the weak points of all of my magnificent creations here. From the Mech Eggs, to the Attack Robots, to the Robo-Falcons, even to the Second Clockwerk itself!"

"What about all of those other creations? How are you supposed to control them without the help of those who constructed them?"

"Prior to entering the Second Clockwerk, the top scientists explained in full detail to me all of the controls I can use from right here in the cockpit to automatically send a sort of wake-up signal to all of the Attack Robots and Robo-Falcons. With a few pushes of various buttons, pulling of a lever, and turning of a switch, all of my hundreds of robotic minions will be ready to go at my command, and follow me through the air like a flock of crows guarding their leader. Because the machines, unlike man, can be trusted to be a thousand times more loyal than any man ever could be. In the end, none of them could be trusted. If one of these robots are captured by the enemy, they'll simply use the self-destruct system. But what if one of the men was to be captured by enemy forces? One of them would surely confess under the slightest of torture, or even just threats of torture."

"Your entire army. All of the men who loyally served you for so many years, as you described it yourself."

"They knew the risks."

"Including the risk of being killed by their own leader?"

"Enough, Cooper. I grow tired of listening to you bore me with your lecture on ethics and morals. This auto-pilot mode for the Second Clockwerk can run infinitely, but I do have an army of robotic minions to summon out of the facility before I proceed to destroy the entire base. Besides, while auto-pilot could easily and efficiently run during all of my major raids, I would prefer to watch the world burn with me at the wheel of its destruction. So let me warn you right now, Cooper, you are in for the fight of your life. Although Hans was much larger than I am, my fighting skills are far superior. You shall regret crossing my path, and will wish that you had simply stayed home in Paris, moping over your dead wife."

Sly raised his Cane and charged at him with blind fury. He took a wild swing before he was even within punching range. Vlotho easily ducked under it and threw a single punch into Sly's stomach. Sly coughed and buckled forward. Vlotho spun around and threw a left cut, sending Sly reeling to the left and sliding across the floor.

"And so the great game begins."

Sly started to prop himself up with his elbows when he felt two powerful hands grab him by his shirt and yank him up. Vlotho pulled Sly's face closer to him and muttered, "You are out of your league, boy."

Vlotho then swiveled around and threw Sly across the room, where he hit the floor again and slid along until he hit the metal wall. Sly crumpled to the floor, his hand still weakly gripping the Cane. Vlotho began to approach him again.

"You thought that you could just travel across the ocean with a few guns, ride all the way to the Volcano and just take it by storm that easily? You have stirred up the hornet's nest. Do not expect to ever see the light of day ever again."

Vlotho stopped just next to Sly.

"I shall enjoy killing you, Cooper. Defeating the one man who could've prevented the Resurrection, and perhaps my most worthy opponent, will serve as a fine predecessor to conquering the whole world."

And then, just as Vlotho barely finished the word "world," Sly instantly sprang into action, spinning around on the floor and swiping his Cane at Vlotho, catching both of his legs in the hook, and promptly yanking and knocking Vlotho off his feet. The badger grunted as he slammed face-first into the floor.

Sly jumped to his feet and grabbed the back of Vlotho's neck. As he started to lift him up, he replied: "You talk too much."

Sly then spun around several times before releasing Vlotho, sending him across the metal floor until he slammed right into the chair in front of the massive control panel, tripping right over one armrest and flipping across the seat itself, crashing down on the opposite side.

Sly quickly strode up to Vlotho before he had the chance to recover, raised his Cane, and brought it down on Vlotho's back once, then twice. The badger cried out briefly before he started to roll over. Sly raised his Cane once more and brought it down, only for Vlotho to reach out and take hold of it with one fist, stopping it before it could slam into his chest. He then heaved and threw Sly over him, sending him across the metal floor and into the front of the control panel.

Sly jumped up to his feet first, while Vlotho was still grunting and trying to get back up. Sly charged at him, Cane behind him and ready to strike again. As he drew close enough and started to swing, Vlotho ducked and let the Cane swing right over his head. He outstretched his arms and took hold of Sly around his torso. He then straightened up, lifting Sly right off the ground and over his head. He heaved and threw his arms behind him, tossing Sly right over him.

He turned around just in time to see Sly start to stand up again, noticeably wobbling. Vlotho walked up to Sly in a perfectly normal pace, as if in no rush to toss another blow at his opponent. Sly had still not yet raised his head, and his knees looked ready to buckle.

"This early? I expected more from you, Coo-."

Just as Vlotho was within range, Sly instantly straightened up and took a mad swing as if he was a baseball player in the World Series. The Cane finally hit home, striking Vlotho across the face, mainly hitting his jaw with a satisfying crack.

Vlotho yelped and stumbled backwards, his hands flying up to his mouth in an instant to cover it. Already, some blood had started to leak through off the side of his mouth, dripping along and dampening his fur. He took a step back bent over, not making any effort to join back in the fight, but simply clutching his bleeding jaw and moaning repeatedly.

He shook briefly, tried to take a step back, but instead took a step forward, slightly closer to Sly. He moaned again, now coughing slightly. He coughed again, then again. He then instantly removed his hands from his face as he coughed for the fourth time; a loud and powerful cough, combined with a spit.

Sly could see, among the clump of blood that came out of his mouth, a small object that gleamed briefly as it fell. It bounced off the floor once with a soft clang; the unmistakable clatter of metal against metal. As it bounced away from the splotch of blood now on the floor, skittering closer to Sly's feet, he could now identify it perfectly: A gold tooth. It stopped just a few inches from Sly's right boot.

And then, before he knew it, he was flying through the air with a sharp pain in his chin. He felt as if he had been struck by a crowbar, with a splitting pain resonating in his chin and jawbone. Vlotho had swung a punch upward while Sly was distracted, and had struck him under the chin. The impact had literally lifted Sly off his feet and sent him reeling backwards, his back arcing and his head craning back as the ceiling rushed past him. He had also lost his grip on his Cane, which fell straight to the floor while he himself flew straight backwards. He slammed onto the metal floor, his back and the back of his head hitting simultaneously, sending a sharp pain up and down his spine.

"You are clever, Cooper, but I am smarter." Vlotho boasted as he casually gave the Cane a kick, sending it sliding across the floor to the other side of the room. "I can't believe you fell for that momentary distraction." Vlotho then kneeled down to pick up his lost golden tooth. "Perhaps you are not the mighty warrior I had heard you to be. Perhaps you are not the fighter who took down all members of the Fiendish Five one by one. Such a shame."

Vlotho then lightly tossed the tooth at Sly, still lying on the ground as if paralyzed. It bounced off his face, hitting him on his right cheek.

"But I don't want to kill you yet. It's too much fun beating you senseless. And besides, the most entertaining death, to me, is the slow, agonizing, merciless kind."

He then stopped down and grabbed Sly by the throat. "And that is exactly what shall happen to you."

He then heaved up and spun around, throwing Sly halfway across the room once more, where Sly scraped the side of the chair as he flew before he hit the floor once more. All that Sly could register were three things: The unbelievable pain, the impact of hitting the floor, and the sound of Vlotho's laughter.

**To be continued…**


	22. The Factory: Part II

The Factory: Part II

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 10:39 P.M…_

Bentley jumped up the stairs and onto the slightly raised platform, the main platform stretching away into the darkness behind and below him. The signal was now much stronger, the pangs growing louder and happening more frequently; the sure sign of close proximity to the target.

_They must have him restrained somewhere. His signal hasn't moved at all._ Bentley thought.

Far behind him, the other signal representing Murray grew more distant and quieter. He hoped that, if anything, that meant that Murray was also moving away just as he was moving away from him.

By now, Bentley had long since tuned out the constant alarm. It had been going on for at least 7 or 8 minutes now, and had slipped in with the rest of the background noise. He had moved past all of the apparatuses and machines that had been accidentally turned on in all of the confusion, so the alarm was really the only noise left, besides his own breathing, the beating of his heart, and the steady rattling of his wheelchair across the grated floor.

Then, after continuing along the elevated platform a little further, he could finally see the darkness ahead start to materialize into something else. Something that was also dark, but clearly with its own mass, very large, stretching out above, below, and on either side of him.

The back wall. He had reached the end of the factory at last.

And there, set right in the middle of the wall, was a door. Two shiny, sleek, silvery metal doors that resembled an elevator.

There were two buttons next to the doors. One was a white button that was below a speaker, and the other was a yellow button with an arrow facing up on it. He pressed the arrow button, and the elevator doors slowly creaked open.

Bentley looked inside cautiously, inspecting the interior of the car. There was nothing immediately obvious. It was the typical four-walled set-up, dark gray on all sides, and without a single button or anything inside. Even the most common of hotel or mall elevators had more on the interior than this one. It seemed almost too much like a trap…

Just then, as Bentley glanced down at the floor, and one of the red flashes hit his direction, he suddenly saw a massive shadow stretched out much too far across the floor of the elevator to be his own.

He turned around sharply and saw the man, standing at the top of the staircase that he had scaled earlier. His fists were clenched, and his eyes were fixated right on him.

Panicking, Bentley furiously wheeled into the elevator. He turned around and backed up against the wall. The man slowly approached.

He glanced around for any kind of button that would speed up the elevator or close the doors. There was none.

The man continued lumbering towards him, drawing closer and closer. Then the doors finally started to close. The man, seeing this, sped up and walked at a much brisker pace. The doors were halfway closed…almost there…

The man was a few feet away. He stretched one hand out, extending the fingers, towards the crevice between the doors…

…they closed. A slight thump sounded, the car jolted, and then slowly began its ascent with that typical feeling of weightlessness. However, unlike other elevators, this one didn't even have a hum. He couldn't hear the creaking of the metal cords as it rode up along them. It was purely silent.

Bentley, still pressed up against the far wall, exhaled a sigh of relief. He hung his head…

…and saw the bottom of the elevator shaft falling away below him. He could see the cords waving beneath the car as it rose. He glanced up and looked around, realizing that he could see the shaft walls passing by on _all_ sides. It was a glass elevator.

He looked up at the ceiling where, beyond the cords stretching higher past his field of vision, there was a small opening at the top. It was blue, but a dark blue, just bright enough to be distinguished from the rest of the shaft.

He glanced down again…

…just in time to see the man, at the very bottom of the shaft, finally pry open the double doors and jump inside.

Bentley's eyes widened, more in shock than fear.

_No…It can't be!_

The man, standing on the floor of the shaft, slowly lifted his head up and locked his eyes onto the departing car. He spotted the terrified turtle, looking down at him.

He then grabbed onto one of the two metal cords and held on tight as it started pulling him up at the same speed as the elevator. However, not only did he let the cord pull him along, but he started climbing it with his own strength, climbing up along a cord that was already moving. This doubled his speed and resulted in the gap between him and the car rapidly closing.

Bentley panicked, not knowing what to do now that he was effectively trapped.

_What can I do, what can I DO?_ He thought frantically as his eyes rapidly scanned the elevator once more. _There are no buttons or anything to stop it, reverse it, or speed it up. I'm in a shaft, so even if I could blow through the glass, I'd be just as trapped…_

He glanced back up at the blue patch above him that was steadily approaching.

_The top of the shaft._ _I have to wait. Once it stops, I'll get out of here. Must…wait…_

The patch approached, becoming even clearer as to what it was. He could faintly see the stars in the night sky, with a few occasional clouds.

_Just a little longer…a little longer…_

He glanced down again to see what progress the attacker had made.

He was perhaps 15 to 20 feet below the elevator, and gaining rapidly.

Bentley nearly jumped out of his chair. He glanced back up again, and saw that, at long last, the elevator was at the top. He expected it to stop then and there.

It didn't. It rose right up out of the shaft and into the open night air. Bentley looked down as the shaft within the building fell away, but the attacker continued climbing. Despite his anxiety, he couldn't help but glance out at the surroundings now that he was clearly much higher than most of the other things in this valley.

What he saw out in the valley below was astonishing, and very briefly made his mind forget about the approaching attacker.

Most of the buildings in the facility were still intact. The entire long line of metal buildings stretching out from the factory that he had just departed from was still crystal clear, looming out directly below him like a river of metal. But, independent from the line of buildings, out in the area of the valley that was more dominated by dead or dying grass, sat the single lone building, the hangar where they had heard the group's commander speaking to the men.

Or, what was left of it.

There was a massive burning, smoking pile of debris in its place. All that was left of the building itself were the lowest sections of the four walls, as fragile as a flower in the breeze on the ruined foundations. The majority of the building was gone, completely collapsed. Within the remains of the four walls were heaps of debris, some piles large, some small, and almost everything on fire. The pillar of black smoke towered from the wreckage, mostly extending straight up like a beam of light into the night sky. A few fragments of the tower occasionally broke away, floating off in any direction. It was then that Bentley realized that the few "clouds" he had seen were certainly not normal clouds.

_I guess I know what set off those alarms earlier._

But, beyond this rather startling revelation, something else in the valley that was not there before was also terrifying. This second object caught even the attention of the man who was hanging underneath the elevator by the metal cords.

Bentley couldn't believe it. It would've been even more of a shock had it not been for him and Murray overhearing the man's speech inside the hangar earlier. Even then, it was still a sight that was almost incomprehensible.

Clockwerk.

The massive metal beast, just as Bentley remembered him. It was soaring around through the night sky, wings flapping, banking sharply, rising and falling, circling the base in an unsystematic pattern. Every now and then, it sounded off one of its terrifying guttural roars. Those horrible yellow eyes seemed to be the epicenter of the great beast. At one point, they seemed to glare directly at him.

The sight suddenly sent flashes of memories through his mind: Memories of the first time they blasted through the Volcano base; memories of Sly's near-death experience at the hands of this monster; memories of being clutched in Clockwerk's talons as the blimp exploded around them above the North Atlantic; memories of being nearly crushed to death in the metal jaws. Horrible visions assaulting his mind at once made the revelation even more unbearable.

But, as Bentley continued staring at it, he noticed that it apparently wasn't inflicting any immediate harm to anything else except the already-destroyed hangar. It was just circling the area aimlessly. At times, it seemed to jerk and bank hard, dipping suddenly and rising slowly, almost as if something was wrong…

Then it was gone. The elevator had reached the top of the shaft, where a metal chamber resting right on the edge of the Volcano crater was directly above it. Metal once again surrounded him on all sides.

The sudden transition that removed Clockwerk from view brought Bentley's mind back to the present, and right on cue, there was a loud thump from below. He looked down to see the man, his mind also back to the task at hand, finally at the top of the cord and directly below the elevator car. He had slammed his fist into the glass bottom. He pulled it back and slammed again with all his furious might. The car rumbled and shook, but the glass initially showed no sign of breaking…

…then there was a crack.

Bentley gulped and jumped away from it as a crack emerged. Seeing the progress, the man leaned back with another punch, slamming it even harder and making the crack even larger.

At that moment, the elevator jolted to a stop. Bentley turned and waited for the double doors to open.

There was the sound of doors sliding open, but the doors stayed shut. After a brief moment of confusion and panic, Bentley spun around to see that the opposite wall was also a pair of double doors, which slid open to reveal a fairly large and rather elegant chamber, with the wall at the very end noticeably being a massive sheet of glass that overlooked the Volcano crater, the orange glow casting an eerie light that reflected off the metal walls.

Bentley wheeled out of the elevator and into the chamber. He looked back at the floor of the elevator once he stepped out and saw the man ready another punch. He glanced at the panel beside the elevator door on the sleek metal wall, where there was a similar set-up of a speaker, a white button, and a yellow button. This time, however, the yellow button had an arrow pointing down. Bentley quickly pressed it.

He wheeled back as the elevator doors slowly closed. The last he saw of the assassin was those angry eyes glaring up at him through the glass floor, where the cracks were significantly larger, wider, and more spread out.

Bentley listened intently as he could barely hear the elevator start to retreat.

He turned around, remembering what had led him here in the first place. He glanced down at the screen on his right armrest. Now, for the first time, the dot was no longer on the very edge of the readout. It was now almost right next to the dot in the middle of the screen, where he was. The pangs were now almost completely in rapid succession, and very loud.

He looked up and did another, more thorough once-over of the room.

There was absolutely no one there.

"Sly?" He called.

Nothing.

"SLY?"

He wheeled further into the room and looked around. He now saw surefire evidence of some sort of scuffle in this room. One of the two potted plants in the room – the one on the right of the elevator doors that he had just come through – was toppled. The massive pot was in several large pieces, the soil spilled onto the metal floor, several larger clumps of dirt scattered around, and the sapling lying on the floor. Nearby, there was a visible rectangular patch on the wall with a single hook where a painting had been hung, as evident by the paleness of this patch and the other paintings on the walls around the spot. On the floor below it, there were the two halves of the painting, one of the halves with a massive hole in the middle of it.

As Bentley ventured further into the room, the dot representing Sly was now directly aligned with the dot representing him.

As Bentley looked down at the armrest screen once more, something else on the neat red carpet caught his attention from the periphery. He focused on it, and, upon realizing what it was, bent down to pick it up with pure shock in his eyes.

Sly's earpiece communicator. On the floor.

Bentley, still tightly clutching the piece, glanced back at the destruction throughout the room.

"Oh, no. No…"

…

He glared angrily at the terrified turtle before the doors closed and the elevator slowly began its descent back down the shaft.

Now with new determination, he began smashing the glass even harder and with quicker punches, attacking it in rapid succession. The elevator continued falling…

Then it was out of the metal shaft, back into the night sky. As he continued his assault on the bottom of the elevator, he couldn't help but glance back at the astonishing spectacle that was flying around aimlessly in the air above the facility.

So that's what their secret business had been.

But as long as it didn't involve him, he didn't care.

Then, finally, one of his punches did it. The cracks took their toll, and a fragment of the glass bottom was knocked out of place. The hole that it left behind was barely large enough for his fist to fit through. He started rapidly hitting the areas around the hole, as the elevator was now at the halfway point of the open area of the shaft. The hole was getting larger…

He now had a hole that was big enough for his head and one of his arms. But his shoulders prevented him from getting through. He had to keep working.

The elevator was back inside the closed shaft in the factory. He was running out of time.

He continued smashing away at the glass, shards either flying into the elevator car or falling past him into the shaft. Now the hole was finally wide enough for his shoulders. Without hesitation, he lifted himself up through the hole, his shoulders barely scraping the ragged edges. He managed to pull himself up without a single scratch.

Once inside the elevator, he looked up at the ceiling and saw the hatch set directly in the middle of the ceiling. Moving away from the hole in the floor, he stood up as high and straight as he could, standing on the tips of his toes and stretching up towards the hatch. He managed to grab the latch and pull it sideways, unlocking it. He then placed both palms against the hatch and jumped up, lifting the hatch up so that it flipped over and opened all the way. When he landed again, he could hear the floor crack as the pressure from his jump increased the strain on the severely damaged floor. He stepped back for a moment, then briefly ran forward and leapt up again, grabbing onto the edges of the open hatch with both hands, using all of his strength to pull himself up and out of the elevator.

He now stood directly on top of the car, which was drawing closer to the bottom of the shaft. Wasting no time whatsoever, he jumped up and grabbed onto one of the metal cords dangling above him. It was moving down, but he climbed against it and moved much faster than the cord, gaining some distance before the elevator finally reached the bottom. With the cords no longer moving, he was able to scale the cords much faster.

This time, there was nowhere left for the turtle to run. Nowhere left to hide. He was cornered. After this, there would be only two targets left.

That is, if either of them weren't already dead.

…

Bentley didn't know what to do. One of the very few times in his life that this was the case. Sly wasn't here. _Nobody_ was here. There was nothing here. And now he was alone, separated from Murray. Now Clockwerk – either the real one or a replica – was back out once again. Now, worst of all, he had no idea whether or not Sly – or Penelope, too, for that matter – was still alive. Even Murray could be dead right now. What if he was the last one? For good, this time?

And how much longer would that last?

He was cornered here. The only way out was that elevator, which he knew that man was sure to break into somehow. There was no way he could go back down that way without running into him again.

He had to think of something.

His mind racing, he looked around the chamber in hopes of finding a decent hiding place. There was that desk in the middle of the room, but that seemed far too obvious. After glancing around a little more, his eyes fell to the single intact potted plant that stood just to the left of the elevator doors.

He glanced at the plant, then back at the desk. An idea was forming.

He reached for a side compartment built into his left armrest, pulled open the hatch, reached in, and pulled out another grapple-cam. He glanced at the desk opposite the room, and the idea solidified. This would be perfect.

That is, if he could finish setting up in time.

Racing over to the desk, he placed the grapple-cam behind it, right behind one of the wooden legs. To further hide it, he moved the black leather chair over and placed it right next to the grapple-cam. He then reached into another side compartment of his wheelchair and withdrew three sleeping gas bombs, placing them all underneath the chair beside the grapple-cam. He quickly retreated back to the opposite wall, hiding behind the still-standing potted plant, pressing back up against the cold metal wall as much as he could. He checked his dart gun to make sure that it was already loaded. Much to his displeasure, there was only one dart left.

He had to make this shot count.

The dart gun at the ready, he then began one of the longest, most painful, and most terrifying waits of his entire life. He tried to steady his raspy breathing so that he could remain absolutely quiet. At the same time, he ever so slowly reached his left hand towards the microphone for the grapple-cam's built-in speaker. He raised it to his mouth, all while holding onto the dart gun with his right hand.

After what felt like an eternity, he could suddenly hear a metallic jolt beside him that almost made him lose his grip on both the microphone and the dart gun. After a pause, there was the sound of strained metal slowly sliding aside, being moved over against its will. He dared not look to the side, as the potted plant obscured his vision enough so that his hiding place was barely visible to whoever exited the elevator. That was just what he wanted.

He could hear the metal creak and groan even more, before he sensed a large, powerful entity enter the room. He knew who it was. He dared not move, breathe, or even think. The hand clutching the microphone was starting to tremble. If he attempted to speak into it now, the man would surely hear him right from where he was instead of where he would be pretending to be. He had to wait even longer.

Then, with an almost graceful silence, the man strode further into the chamber, emerging from behind the potted plant and into Bentley's sight. He froze.

The massive head slowly turned to the right, glancing at the destruction in that half of the chamber just as Bentley had.

Bentley knew that, in a matter of moments, he would surely turn to the left as well.

With trembling lips, he uttered a brief gasp into the microphone, half fake and half real.

The man perked up, turning his head back towards the opposite wall of the room, where the desk and window were. He was staring right at the desk.

Bentley repeated a slight gasp, almost hearing his own voice echoed from across the room.

The man began advancing towards the desk slowly. Bentley, with sweat dripping down his forehead, forming on his palms beneath the gloves, and hands trembling, slowly let the thumb of his left hand drop down the length of the small microphone towards a small red button.

The man was right in front of the desk. He paused, glancing at the familiar piece of oak furniture before slowly turning to the left to walk around it. Bentley froze up again as he came scarily close to seeing Bentley in his periphery. But he didn't.

He strode around the end of the desk and, after a brief pause, rounded the desk and looked down at the floor behind it, right next to where the chair was.

After a slight hesitation, Bentley raised the dart gun with one hand, while the other hand prepared to press the red button.

At that moment, the man saw the flicker of movement out of the corner of his right eye and turned sharply, locking his eyes onto the turtle across the room.

Bentley fired the final dart, which soared across the room and struck the man in the chest. He looked down at the dart lodged in his Kevlar vest blankly, then back at the turtle with the slightest bit of amusement in his rock-hard face.

Bentley, detecting the amusement, couldn't help but muster a slight grin himself, well aware of what was about to happen. He pressed the red button.

Now it was a three-second wait.

The man, not noticing the turtle press the red button, reached for the dart casually and removed it just as he had before, dropping it to the floor with a clatter, where it landed right next to the grapple-cam.

He started to lift one foot to begin his advance towards the cornered turtle.

Instead, his entire body was lifted up as a massive explosion suddenly emitted from right beside him and below him. The blast sent the black chair flying across the room, flipped the heavy desk over and simultaneously blew it roughly in half, one half flying in the direction of the fallen plant and ruined painting and the other to the opposite side of the room. Splinters of wood and pieces of the desk's accessories flew in all directions except for towards the window, which was instead behind the bomb and out of the radius of the blast. At most, the entire window shook in its frame and multiple cracks appeared, but it still held strong. At the same time, the explosion set off all three of the sleeping gas bombs, instantly creating a large, thick green haze over the entire area around the desk, and enveloping the man. He inhaled plenty of the gas before he flew forward several feet, slamming to the red carpeted floor with a loud thud. The gas still hung in the air around him, and he struggled as hard as he could to fight the gas and not cough. While still lying on the floor, he covered his mouth with a fist and waved at the gas around his face with the other, frantically trying to keep the fumes away from his system.

However, the gas had taken its toll.

The man struggled as he slowly attempted to lift himself up off the floor, crawling to his hands and knees, and slowly wobbling to his feet. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he glared across the room at the clever turtle. Through the lethargy clearly building in his face and the rest of his body, there was an intense glare of hatred and fury that wiped away the amusement from earlier. Pieces of debris fluttered around him, and the smoke from the explosion itself was also hovering around him, damaging his lungs and obscuring his vision even further.

He locked his eyes on the turtle and slowly began to move forward, feeling as if he was dragging a weight on him that was two or three times his own. But he was still moving.

Bentley, thoroughly horrified, dropped both the microphone and the dart gun and wheeled around the plant towards the elevator doors, pressing the button frantically as if it would bring the car up much faster.

The man took about two more steps, moving towards the middle of the room.

Then, at last, it was too much for him. His eyes seemed to roll over in his head as he leaned backwards and fell to the floor with yet another loud thud. He glanced up at the metal ceiling and the extravagant chandelier above him before his vision turned to darkness.

Bentley watched as the eyelids fluttered closed, and the few movements in his large fingers ceased. All that was left was the rising and falling of his chest. He was certainly not dead, but he was certainly unconscious at last.

Bentley's hand slowly dropped away from the button as he leaned back against the closed doors. He stared at the fallen Goliath, after what seemed like an unstoppable rampage, finally defeated.

Then, suddenly, he could feel the metal doors opening behind him.

Jumping forward and spinning around, he had an instant resurgence of fear and terror as the doors opened. What was it this time?

The doors opened to reveal the elevator car, its floor smashed, a massive hole in the middle, with cracks spreading out in a spider-web formation covering half of the floor, and glass shards scattered all over. The hatch in the ceiling was also open. But what caught his attention the most was the occupant of the elevator.

"Murray!" Bentley cried in shock and happiness together.

Murray was visibly shaken and weak, leaning to one side, his left hand clutching his right elbow, and visible dark red marks on his neck. In his right hand was the .44 Magnum he had stolen from the unconscious guard earlier and lost in the struggle with the man. He leaned against the wall of the elevator, maintaining a safe distance from the hole in the floor. He winced as he straightened up and looked at Bentley.

"Hey…old pal."

"Murray, what happened? Did you run into him again?"

"Yeah." Murray stumbled out of the elevator, edging around the hole and onto the safe, hard floor of the chamber. "He almost got me, too. I had to fake like I was done for, and he left me alone. I got the gun back." He held up the pistol.

"Perfect timing." Bentley moved aside and gestured at the sleeping giant.

Murray's eyes widened, after another wince of pain.

"Wow. What happened?"

"Enough sleeping gas bombs, the self-destruction of a grapple-cam, and yet another sleeping dart."

"That simple, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Wait a minute…what about Sly?"

The look of triumph and relief in Bentley's eyes vanished as he remembered.

"Oh…"

He slowly reached into a pocket and pulled out their missing friend's communicator.

Murray looked closely at it, and his jaw dropped.

"You mean…?"

"He's not here. Even before I got here, several things were already destroyed." As he said this, he gestured back at the destroyed painting halves and the fallen plant. "There was clearly some kind of struggle in here, and perhaps Sly's communicator was knocked out by a powerful hit or something."

"So…where is he now?" Murray paused. "Unless he's…"

"No. Sly's stronger and tougher than that. I'm sure that he's still alive. But we're running out of time here, Murray. I assume that you saw it as you came up in the elevator?"

"Yeah. It was just like that guy said!"

"We have to do something, and we can't do anything in here. We've got to get back to the ground level."

"Alright. Let's go."

They turned back to the elevator when, suddenly, something flew right between them and into the elevator, slamming into the glass wall and wedging itself perfectly between the other pair of double doors inside the elevator. It was a large fragment of finely-polished oak.

They both spun around to see the man, once again standing tall, his right hand dropping back down to his side. He shook off the weariness and his eyes once again had a look of undying hatred in them as he stared down his two targets. With a slight and noticeable limp, he slowly began advancing towards them once more.

"NO!" Bentley screamed in terror and frustration. "NO! NOT AGAIN!"

Murray reacted instantly, raising his Magnum and, without hesitation, pulling the trigger.

It sounded with a massive report that rang loudly throughout the metal chamber, echoing off the walls and sending vibrations up and down the three spines in the room. Bentley's hands whipped up to his ears as he winced in pain from the loudness of the sound right next to him.

The first bullet struck the man in the middle of his stomach. Thanks to the Kevlar, it did not penetrate through completely. But the sheer force of the bullet's impact sent him stumbling backwards. Murray fired a second shot, which hit him a little higher in the stomach. He jumped backwards again. The third shot hit him even higher, in the left breast, just a few inches away from where the Kevlar ended. He continued moving backwards, now standing about where the desk stood about a minute ago. Murray fired the fourth shot, which grazed his left shoulder just centimeters beside where one of the shoulder straps for the Kevlar vest sat, thus hitting home and peeling away a significant amount of flesh, at the same time sending a shower of blood flying and spattering the window behind him. Since the bullet was not completely stopped by the contact with the man's shoulder, flew past and hit the large window, creating a small hole that spread the cracks even further and weakened the window even more. Having actually hit an unprotected area of his body, the fourth impact felt even harder and delivered much more pain than the first three shots, and he stumbled backwards even more, barely able to stay standing. He was now barely a foot away from the cracked, fragile, and blood-stained window.

But he remained standing nonetheless.

Murray, with clear frustration visible in his face, gripped the pistol's handle even tighter and started to approach the man, raising the barrel even higher and aiming at his face.

As the hippo approached, the man finally lost control and stumbled backwards far enough, hitting the massive window. As a result of the damage it had already received, combined with his large and powerful impact into it, the large window finally gave way.

Murray stopped dead in his tracks, pistol still raised, as the towering man smashed right through the window. It was as if the entire window disintegrated. Rather than punching a hole about as large as his own body, the force destroyed the entire window, almost like it became a sheet of water that instantly poured down out of its place. Shards of glass of all sizes fell from the frame and either clattered to the floor, shattering into even smaller pieces, or fell out the other side and down into the crater below. It almost sounded like its own kind of musical instrument, with the clattering and smashing all coming together in a strangely soft sound, not like a loud, sudden smashing, or an extremely soft crash. It almost resembled small bells ringing in a manner that was almost graceful and pleasant. There were multiple flashes of orange light from where the lava reflected up onto falling pieces, reflecting their orange glow into the chamber for a split second before the angle changed and the piece fell further. Some pieces scattered as far as two feet from the window frame.

Among the shower of glass raining down on and around him, the mountainous man stumbled right through it and slipped off the safety of the metal floor. He instantly fell straight down and out of sight. Just like always, there was not a single sound, even as he fell to his certain death in the lava below.

Murray and Bentley stared in disbelief. The last few pieces of glass settled on the floor, the tinkling slowly dying down. The flashes of light grew less and less plentiful and frequent, until it was once again as if the whole window was there again. The only slight difference now was the slow advancement of warm air from outside into the colder chamber, with an ever so light breeze penetrating the open room, rustling the leaves on the nearby plants.

But, other than that, it was pure silence.

Murray slowly lowered the revolver, exhaling a long sigh of relief. Bentley, still against the back wall, slowly wheeled up alongside his friend, also exhaling, but in an almost nervous manner, as if he wasn't sure that what had just happened had really happened.

"Is…" He was barely able to make a complete sentence. "Is…is it…over?"

Murray looked down at Bentley, surprised that it was him answering the question for Bentley for a change.

"I think so."

He looked down at the revolver, then pressed a small button forward and flicked the revolver aside, flipping the chamber open.

"And I still have two bullets left in this thing."

He glanced back at Bentley with the slightest of grins. A chuckle escaped.

Despite the intense situation that they had just barely escaped, Bentley found the grin and chuckle strangely contagious. After a pause, he slowly mustered the same grin – albeit much weaker – and let out a little laugh.

Murray's grin only grew wider, and as he flicked the chamber back into place, he couldn't help but start laughing.

"It's finally over. I thought he'd never give up!"

"I think that guy would've given Sly a real run for his money in terms of persistence!" Bentley added in his own attempt at a joke.

Just as Murray started laughing at this, a hand shot up from below the floor just outside of where the window had been. It shot up into the air, revealing an entire forearm, then slammed down to the metal floor with a smack.

Bentley, hearing the sound and looking in its direction, saw the hand and screamed.

Murray, following his friend's sudden glance in the direction of the window, saw the hand. At that moment, the man's right hand shot up as well, grabbing onto the metal floor the best it could. Then, from directly between the two hands, the man reared his large, ugly head once more. He glared straight at the hippo and the turtle, his eyes like twin furnaces that burned with rage as he started to pull himself up.

"BLARGH! Doesn't this guy ever DIE?"

Murray, now thoroughly fed up with this beast's level of persistence, raised the gun and charged towards him just as his left hand slowly began advancing even further along the floor, trying to pull himself up further.

Murray was at the edge instantly, gun raised. He placed the tip of the barrel right against the man's left hand and didn't even slightly pause before pulling the trigger.

A massive hole instantly appeared in the burly left hand. Bits of flesh, bone, and showers of blood flew in all directions, some even splattering onto Murray's gun and forearm. He winced as a few drops hit him in the face.

The man's horrible eyes widened in fear and pain, and he instantly lost what little ground he gained. He fell back further, his left hand flying across the metal floor and falling back down below the ledge. He was now hanging onto the edge by one hand and one hand only. His fingers strained as hard as they could as they gripped the sleek metal edge, struggling to hold up all of his weight.

With only one shot left in the pistol, Murray stood right at the edge, directly over the man and his single clutching hand. Murray slowly kneeled down, moving even closer to the man. He slowly raised the pistol for its sixth and final shot. He lowered it to aim directly at the man's face. At that moment, the man had been looking down at the Volcano crater perhaps 70 to 80 feet below, the orange lava still broiling and bubbling. Even this high up, its heat could be felt, so intense that it made him sweat. He then slowly looked back up at the ledge, only to see the angry hippo, whom he had supposedly killed earlier, alive and well, and with a look of determination in his glare that rivaled his own. The hippo was perched over him, the powerful pistol clenched firmly in his hand, the tip of its still-smoking barrel now lowered, aiming down at him, pointing directly between his eyes. The hippo slowly closed one eye and stared hard down the long barrel of the revolver, taking steady aim as he slowly began to apply pressure to the trigger. The hammer slowly began to pull back, preparing to slam down on the final bullet and deliver its deadly blow.

It was insurmountable. In a matter of moments, the tables had been turned on him. It was impossible. It was incomprehensible. Never before had he ever experienced a failure like this. In all his years in the business, through all the dozens, even hundreds, of people that he had successfully eliminated, never before had he been outsmarted or outdone like this. He realized only now, at the very end, that it had been due to his emotions. He had been too determined to get personal revenge on these targets for evading him and humiliating him several times for so long. He had taken too long in playing with them rather than disposing of them efficiently. He had vowed to himself to be the perfect termination specialist. For several decades, he had maintained this personal promise. He had a perfect, undefeatable record. He was the best. Not even the best of the best, but simply the best. No failure. No falter. No mistakes.

Now, finally, he was faced with the ultimate failure: Being eliminated by one of his own targets.

He simply would not allow that. Never before had he faced such defeat. And he wanted to ensure that, even at the end of his life, he would not face such defeat. He would keep the vow he had made to himself.

If anyone was going to take his life, it would be himself.

Taking one final, deep, silent breath, he closed his eyes, and his right hand relaxed.

Murray slowly opened his other eye, released the trigger, and let the gun sink to the floor. He watched in pure disbelief and astonishment as the man, this impossible, relentless, unstoppable force of a man, released his remaining grip on the metal edge. Murray could only watch as the huge body fell away from the chamber and plummeted down towards the lava below. He simply couldn't look away from it. He had to watch this time. But the one thing that caught his attention the most, by far, was the man's face. He had closed his eyes, and as he fell further and further away, towards the lava and certain death, his face remained perfectly…

…normal.

It was perfectly blank. Empty. Emotionless. Expressionless. Gone was the look of anger. Gone was the look of satisfaction. Gone was the look of triumph. Gone was the look of eagerness. It wasn't even a somber or solemn look. It was perfectly, truly, undeniably blank.

And so his face remained as he fell, falling farther and farther, blood still leaking from his left hand and other cuts on his body from the glass that had fallen around him earlier. He almost seemed to fall in slow motion.

Then, finally, at long last, he landed.

The initial impact into the lava also seemed to be in slow motion. He almost seemed to create a hole in it, like it was more of a solid than a liquid. A brief crater opened up in the lava around him, with lava splashing up on all sides, some drops hitting the crater wall beside him. Then, as he settled in, it seemed to come flowing back in like water flooding a newly-opened canal. It swept over him and almost completely consumed him. Instantly, the burning, searing heat shot through his body in an instant, and he jerked up. The look of calm on his face vanished now with a look of pure chaos and destruction. His head shot up, and his hands started waving around frantically. Even this high up, Murray could hear a strange sound. It sounded beyond the sound any normal being could make. It was somewhat distant, empty, echoing, almost supernatural.

It took him a moment to realize that it was the man.

For the first – and last – time, he finally heard the man emit a sound. It was a scream. A scream of agony. A scream of defeat. A scream of death. It was unearthly. It sounded like the screech of a hawk, but it also had a strange emptiness that sounded like the moan of a ghost, mixed with an almost metal and mechanical sound. In some ways, it loosely resembled the screeching and moaning of Clockwerk. Combined with the ferocious and unnatural screech, his movements were erratic, extraordinarily fast, and jerky in their pace. It was unlike regular twitching, and more like mechanical appendages failing in mid-movement, repeatedly stopping and going again, moving backwards, sideways, and in directions that didn't seem physically possible.

And so he continued his wild dying movements, all his energy and strength put into those final thrashes, kicks, swings, and punches at empty air. His head twisted around, rolling in circles, jerking up and down, his mouth stretched wide open as he continued emitting his dying scream. All the while, the lava continued eating away at him, the scalding liquid chewing away at his flesh, instantly removing it and tearing apart his muscles. His veins instantly popped under the heat, the blood leaking freely and dripping in streams into the lava, which devoured it instantly. Soon the severed and ruined veins were also gone. Steam rose off of every single spot on his body, forming a tower of steam that lifted up and away from his thrashing form, only growing thicker and higher as the lava's deadly arm reached further into his frame. Soon the muscles gave way too, and the bones were exposed, their white complexion dirtied by the recently peeled-away dark red muscles. Although the bones outlasted the flesh and muscles by a few more seconds, these too were soon engulfed completely. In a matter of seconds, the man's large and seemingly indestructible body was almost completely gone, devoured by the lava that finally humbled him and proved even deadlier than he was.

Even as his life slowly faded away forever, he still willed his head to lift up just enough to look straight into the eyes of the hippo who had defeated him. He was still perched on the very edge where the window had been, looking down at him with a look definitely filled with shock, but certainly nothing along the lines of sympathy or worry. It was this hippo who had defeated him. Who now looked down on him as he died. Who now proved superior to him. Who now, unknowingly, had defeated the greatest reclamation specialist in the world, if not in history.

And then there was no more movement. There was no more pain. There was no more hearing. There was no more sight. There was no more smell. The hippo, the lava, the crater walls rising up around him on all sides, the tower of steam rising from his own body, all vanished into eternity.

Murray watched as the screaming and writhing form ceased all movements and all sounds, disappearing into a cloud of steam as the lava completely enveloped it. And then it was gone. As if it had never known life, as if it had never existed.

He was tense for a few long moments, still in that crouched position right on the precipice of the same fate as his opponent, gun still clenched in his hand.

Then, losing all control, he slumped backwards and sat down on the metal floor, legs in front of him and both hands on the floor behind him to hold himself up.

Silence slowly fell over the chamber.

Then it was broken by the steady creaking of Bentley's wheelchair as he slowly rolled over to his dazed friend. Several shards of glass crunched underneath the tires as he approached where the window had been. He was soon directly alongside Murray.

For a few long moments, neither of them could collect the breath to say anything. Then, finally, Bentley chimed in.

"Is…Is it over?"

After a few long moments, Murray replied, "Yeah. It's over."

"For good this time?"

"I watched it. I'm pretty sure no one could've survived that."

Bentley exhaled; a prolonged sigh of relief that had been withheld for days. His gloved hands, though still shaking, managed to settle down a little more, both loosening their grips on the armrests of the wheelchair. Although he was still sweating and the hot air from the volcano crater below was adding to the heat, he felt himself cool off a little bit.

"At last. I thought we'd never see the end of him."

"Me, too." Murray slowly pulled his own legs back up towards him as he started to ease himself up off the floor, scattering a few pieces of glass.

"Although…" He looked down at the pistol he still clenched in his right hand. "…I never did get to use my last shot."

He looked back down at Bentley, who returned the look. After a few moments, Murray emitted another chuckle, this one more of a nervous, cautious chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.

A few moments later, Bentley imitated him with another chuckle. Murray chuckled again, casually pressing his right hand against his stomach and slightly bending over.

The silence was now only broken by an occasional laugh from the two friends, as part of their impromptu celebration of a long-awaited victory.

But it was far from over. And a sudden, distant, metallic screech reminded them of that. The screech was followed shortly after by a distant rumbling sound reminiscent of thunder, accompanied with a shaking of the entire chamber that rattled the few pieces of furniture that were still standing, and even those that were ruined.

The chuckles and the grins vanished, and both turned back towards the back wall, in the direction of the sound.

"Oh…" Murray muttered as he remembered.

"We've got to get out of here." Bentley reiterated.

"Right. Let's go!"

Both quickly got up and tore back to the elevator, jumping over the debris and carefully avoiding the hole in the glass floor, and after pressing the button, could only wait as it slowly descended once more back down the shaft. Once it was in the glass section of the shaft, both had their eyes to the skies.

Sure enough, there was the Clockwerk, still flying around in the sky above the facility. However, there was clearly something much different about its flight this time. It seemed to be flying more erratically, jerking and twisting, veering hard to the left and right, then suddenly pulling up and soaring down, as if it was in absolute mental chaos. The screeches and roars continued, and they also noted that several more sections of the facility – though none immediately near the factory that they had to pass through again – were in ruins and on fire.

"Something's not right here." Murray stated. "Just look at it; it's going crazy!"

He turned to Bentley, as the look of realization came over both of them.

"You don't think…?"

"It has to be him." Bentley replied with confidence. "This definitely looks like Sly's work." He added, with a dry smirk.

"But look at those other buildings! They weren't on fire before! What's happening here?"

"I don't know, but I do know one thing: We have to get out of this place and we have to get out of here now!"

Then the elevator was back in the enclosed shaft as it reentered the bulk of the factory. As it drew closer to the bottom, the familiar wail of the sirens returned, distant at first, but slowly and gradually growing louder and louder. Then they were finally at the bottom, and the elevator jolted to a halt. Murray practically pried the doors open himself, and he and Bentley rushed into the open factory once again. The sirens were back with their rhythmic wailing, the red lights flashing repeatedly. In the distance, various pieces of machinery and apparatuses were still moving aimlessly as a result of their accidental activation, adding to the level of paranoia and disorientation. The only sense of relief was in the knowledge that at least their most formidable and unstoppable opponent was finally gone.

"Come on, this way!" Murray yelled. He ran off straight down the metal platform, leaping down the small flight of stairs with Bentley barely keeping up. They ran all the way back through the factory, past the familiar devices both stationary and moving, through the flashes of red, among the blaring sirens, and weaving in and out down the various pathways that they remembered taking before. The furnace, the crane arm, the conveyor belt, the smashed console, and so many other landmarks flew by on both sides in one blur as they desperately raced for the exit. There was another rumbling and shaking, almost causing Murray to trip and noticeably short-circuiting several of the nearby machines.

"What was that?" Bentley cried out frantically.

"I don't know, but we have to get out of here before one of those happens right here!"

After what felt like an endless trek through the jungle of metal and machinery, they finally reached the long staircase leading up to the destroyed main entrance to the factory. Murray bounded over the pigeon's limp body and tore up the stairs with Bentley boosting himself up the steps behind him. Murray reached the platform at the top…

…suddenly confronted by a German shepherd. He was just slightly shorter than Murray, and his uniform was noticeably torn, scorched, and ragged. There was a wound on his chest that he clutched tightly with his left hand, and he had a slight limp as he advanced towards the factory entrance. Clutched in his right hand was a handgun, stained with blood. He was muttering something under his breath and winced, clutching his wound even tighter and even pressing his gun hand against it for a moment.

Just as he passed through the doorway, he looked straight up and at the hippo standing at the top of the staircase.

His eyes widened and he started to lift his handgun.

"Freeze!" He called out loudly. However, the effort of whipping the gun up suddenly, combined with yelling out so loud, instantly brought on another jolt of pain, and he winced and bent over.

Without hesitation, Murray raised his stolen pistol, aimed carefully, and fired the sixth and final shot. The bullet hit the young Colonel right in the chest just as he started to straighten up again, and the impact instantly drove him backwards, nearly lifted off his feet as he sprawled out and collapsed to the ground, the handgun clattering from his hand and his dazed eyes staring up at the ceiling as the life left him.

Murray, not even the least bit stunned, lowered the pistol. He glanced back at the wide-eyed Bentley, who first looked at the German shepherd's motionless body, then back up at Murray.

Murray simply shrugged, then lifted up his Magnum pistol again, glanced at it for all of half a second, then tossed it aside. As he started running again, he bent down as he passed by the Colonel's body and swiped up the pistol. Bentley followed close behind him.

They continued running through the empty metal halls. The only difference now was that these halls were also bathed in the red flashing light and the sirens blared up and down even here, echoing back and forth between the much closer walls, echoing again and again and dragging on much longer than they did in the factory. They passed by numerous doors and empty weapon racks, eventually arriving once again at the catwalk leading over the firing range.

It was at that moment when yet another familiar figure suddenly appeared ahead of them. This time, it was the cat that Murray had personally rendered unconscious. Ivan, now had two steady streams of blood trickling down his face; one from an empty spot in his mouth where one of his front teeth had been, and one from his broken nose. He stumbled along blindly, his AR-15 clutched tightly in both hands, and he babbled on and on in frantic Russian. He noticed the two figures at the opposite end of the catwalk, and stopped dead in his tracks. Out of sheer fright and frantic reflexes, the cat was the first to take blind aim and fire, squeezing off a series of sharp rounds in their direction.

Both Bentley and Murray instinctively ducked as most of the rounds went high over their heads, hitting the metal walls and ceilings in a shower of brief flashes. Both then jumped back behind one of the metal support beams of the catwalk, and Murray took careful aim with his newly-acquired pistol. He fired two shots, both of which missed as the nervous cat jumped back and forth wildly.

Murray jerked his hand back and paused, listening as the cat babbled on in Russian, and then unleashed another hail of bullets. Murray pulled his arms up against his body, cringing as the bullets ricocheted off the walls, ceiling, floor, and even the support beam that he was leaning against, the bullets that could've easily killed him hitting just inches from him. This round lasted a bit longer as more shots were fired, the cat's yelling serving as a background noise as the shots rang out. After a few long seconds of prolonged gunfire, the shots ceased as the magazine ran empty. The cat, still babbling, frantically started to pull out the empty magazine.

Murray swung his gun hand out again, taking only a brief second to aim, and fired three more shots. Two of the shots hit their mark, tearing through the cat's weak chest and stomach, cutting off his rambling and dropping him to the floor just as another magazine was ready to be placed into his weapon. Though the gun stayed on him due to the shoulder strap, the second magazine flew from his hands and clattered to the floor, skidding aside and stopping just at the wall.

Murray leaned out to make sure of what he had done, then gestured to Bentley to follow him as he ran out from behind the support beam and took off down the catwalk. He ran around the cat's body, not even bothering to commandeer a new weapon as he continued racing down the hall.

They continued racing down the hall, the flashing red lights, blaring sirens, and endless doors on either side and lights dotting the ceiling seeming to recycle past them again and again in a never-ending loop. However, as they continued running, they could finally see something different up ahead.

Further down the hall, where there had surely been even more doors and longer hallway, there was an orange glow. It was small and distant, but extremely bright. Also, the faintest wisps of smoke were drifting towards them.

"What's that?" Bentley asked nervously, even though he was sure that he already knew what it was.

"Be careful." Murray warned as he approached.

They drew closer, the orange glow getting larger and the smoke becoming denser and blacker. Bentley eventually gave in and quickly covered his mouth and nose with one gloved hand while swatting wildly at the smoke with the other. Murray was more resilient, but even he had to stop briefly to cough as the smoke became more overwhelming.

The fire was now extremely close, its crackling much louder, the flames flickering higher as they danced wildly in the metal hall. Here, the smoke nearly covered the few red lights that were still flashing nearby, and the roaring of the flames partially drowned out the blaring of the sirens.

As they drew closer, there was more debris on the floor around them. Shards of metal, clumps of earth, burning debris, and holes and scorch marks in the walls, floor, and ceiling. One of the nearest doors was blown off its hinges, and a light bulb lay shattered on the floor amidst its ruined cage, as both had fallen from the ceiling.

By now, the smoke was almost too much to bear. Bentley frantically tried to tell Murray that it was too much for him, but he didn't want to risk opening his mouth and inhaling even the slightest bits of smoke.

However, as Murray drew closer, he caught a brief glimpse of something, just beyond the smoke and the flames, through the ruined hallway and scattered debris.

Sky.

Despite the thick veil of smoke, he could just barely see a few small stars winking in and out as the smoke blew over. He had finally found a way out.

Murray turned back to Bentley, who kept himself at a distance now, and shouted, "Bentley! Come here! It's the way out!"

Bentley, still refusing to speak, now covered his mouth with both hands and shook his head, wincing as he bent over in his chair and coughed hard into his gloves.

Murray, glancing back at the sky just beyond reach, turned and ran back to his friend, kneeling down and taking hold of the entire chair with both hands, lifting it up and straightening himself up. As he turned back towards the wall of smoke and flames, he leaned in close to Bentley.

"Just keep your eyes shut and cover your mouth! We'll be out of here fast!"

Bentley complied, now covering his entire face with both hands and curling up. Murray stared down the obstacle, then charged through. He bounded over flames, dodging pieces of debris, and ducking through the thick smoke, holding his breath the whole time and not daring to take even the slightest gasp. The flames were roaring all around him, the sirens in the distance barely able to compare to the flames' noise. The smoke completely surrounded him, and had it not been for him focusing on the right direction before entering the inferno, he would've surely become disoriented and helplessly lost. He could barely see, with the smoke too dark and the flames too bright. The soles of his feet were getting hotter and hotter as he took step after step on the hot metal floor, and the heat surrounding him was enveloping him…

…then there was a rush of cold air as he burst out of the flames and smoke, emerging into the fresh night air just outside the destroyed hallway. The heat was still fresh directly behind him, but the sudden jump out of the fire had allowed a brief cool breeze to flow over him, at the same time giving him some fresh air to inhale, reenergizing him and giving him enough strength and determination to continue running, putting more distance between himself and the burning, ruined hallway.

When he was finally far away enough, now standing on the short grass, he stopped and eased Bentley's chair back down onto the ground, exhaling a long-awaited sigh of relief.

"It's…(cough)…OK, pal…we're safe." Murray stooped down to continue coughing as Bentley slowly dropped his hands.

"Thanks, pal." Bentley then looked past Murray at the burning wreckage. His glasses were steaming and fogged up from the heat, so he slowly removed them and rubbed both lenses down with his gloves. Once he was done, he put them back on and glanced past Murray at the burning wreckage.

The sight made his jaw drop. When Murray straightened up a little and saw his friend staring blankly at the facility behind him, he slowly turned around and followed his friend's gaze, sharing in his shock at the sight.

Unlike what they had originally believed, it was not just a small portion of the hallway that had been mysteriously blown away. They saw that where they had exited was about three quarters of the overall length of the facility stretching out from the Volcano's base. From there, an entire fourth portion of the facility was completely gone. The tip of the appendage-like layout of the facility was completely destroyed. A massive tower of fire rose from the remains, the smoke billowing up into the night's sky and rivaling the smoke that rose from the Volcano's crater, forming twin towers of smoke rising from the same valley. Debris was scattered all over, many pieces even reaching where they stood and beyond, burning pieces of wreckage tainting the grass and setting small patches of it on fire around them. Even some of the rock field on the other side of the facility was completely blown away, a fresh imprint on the spot where rock, metal, grass, and earth had been eradicated by something tremendous.

Then, behind them, there was another sound that differed from the roaring and crackling of the distant fire. It sounded like collapsing, or many heavy pieces of metal hitting the ground. Both turned around, and found themselves staring at the spot where the massive hangar from earlier had been.

Had been.

Now, where the hangar was, there was a smoldering patch in the middle of the grass. Fire and smoke rose from it, barely contained within the very base of the four walls, forming the ruined foundation of the missing building that served as the only marker of where the building had been. A field of debris surrounded it, pieces of burning material spread out even further throughout the vicinity, creating a scene or true chaos and destruction. The smoke tower that billowed from the remains of the hangar formed a third tower, putting even more smoke in the night sky, blotting out more stars and making the entire valley seem even darker.

Both slowly looked back and forth between the remains of the hangar and the destroyed section of the facility. Then they slowly followed the smoke towers and looked up into the sky.

At first, all they could see was the smoke, billowing up and forming a massive cloud, almost like a halo of death surrounding the valley.

Then, suddenly, a shape burst through the black cloud, leaving a portion of the smoke cloud swirling in a whirlpool behind it as it shot through.

It was not over yet.

**To be continued…**


	23. The Battle: Part II

The Battle: Part II

_The Krak-Karov Volcano, Russia; Tuesday, June 14, 10:36 P.M…_

Sly had his face against the cold, hard metal, temporarily shot with pain that prevented him from mustering enough strength to climb to his feet.

Vlotho's laughter slowly subsided, replaced with the sound of rapidly-approaching footsteps. Just as Sly got to his knees, he could feel the powerful grips on his back, yanking him up by his shirt and tossing him sideways across the room. He hit the wall before he hit the floor, slamming up against it and jolting his whole body as he sank to the floor, slumped over and spitting out blood.

He wiped most of the blood off his chin and stumbled to his feet. He turned around to face the badger, who didn't even have his fists raised. It was then that Sly felt a strange sense of isolation, exclusion, and desolation as he fully comprehended the situation as it was. It was just him and Vlotho, and this fight would not tend without someone being murdered. Sly suddenly felt a strange hot air surround him, instantly drawing sweat and making him feel uncomfortable in his own clothes. He wanted to tug at his short collar to let in some cold air, but feared making even the slightest move that would make him vulnerable to Vlotho. Sly could hear his own heartbeat in his chest…just like the nightmares.

_Thump-thump…thump-thump…thump-thump…_

Then Vlotho swung a left hook. Even before Sly's brain registered it, he dodged to the side and raised his own fists. Vlotho shot his other fist straight out, grabbing Sly's left wrist. Sly twisted his arm around and yanked Vlotho closer to him, doubling him over and swiftly raising his knee up into Vlotho's stomach repeatedly in several devastating blows. He then untwisted Vlotho's arm just as he swung another punch aimed at Vlotho's jaw, sending the badger stumbling freely backwards, lying on his back on the metal floor with an incredulous look on his wide-eyed face.

Sly stepped back a few feet, raising both of his fists. He briefly glanced over at where his Cane was, on the opposite side of the room, with Vlotho between him and his precious heirloom. He slowly started sidestepping around Vlotho, maintaining a safe distance from him as he got back up to his feet. However, just as Sly was halfway across, the Cane now more directly in front of him and Vlotho off to the side, Vlotho was standing up and facing Sly. He glanced to the right and saw the Cane, then looked back at Sly with an evil grin.

Before he knew it, Sly watched as Vlotho instantly bolted to the right, heading straight for the Cane. Sly sprinted after him, but Vlotho had already swept it up off the floor and spun around, brandishing it like an axe rather than the majestic weapon that it truly was. He started making wild swings at Sly, with Sly jumping backwards at each one. Through the swings, the swipes of yellow and brown as the item almost became a blur, Sly could see straight through to Vlotho's face.

His eyes were wide, wild with greed and anticipation as he moved closer and closer to his prey with each wide swing. He was grinning now, his teeth barred in a madman's smile, spreading ear to ear. His eyebrows were raised now, and his eyes started loosely rolling from the wild side-to-side movements of each back-and-forth swing, almost as if he no longer had any control over them.

Then Sly felt something press up behind him. He spun around to see that he was now against the control panel, with the wall on his left. He was backed up. He turned to see Vlotho take several more swings before seeing Sly's situation, in which he raised the Cane up high above his head, preparing to bring it down.

Sly simply waited for the hit before he leapt to the right as the Cane swung down. The tip clipped the edge of the control panel with its hook, but other than that, swung at air.

While the Cane was still coming down, Sly rushed at Vlotho and tackled him, throwing both of them into the wall beside him and quickly delivering several swift punches to his stomach. While Vlotho was dazed, Sly quickly reached for the wrist of Vlotho's left hand, and with all his might, twisted it backwards so far that he thought it would break. Vlotho yelped out briefly and dropped the Cane, which Sly quickly leaned over to grab. However, Vlotho took quick advantage of this and spun around with one leg up, delivering a swift spinning kick to Sly's side and sending him flying to the side. While Sly was still on the floor, Vlotho stooped down, grabbed him by the throat, then spun around and released him, sending him sliding right back to the same spot where he had reclaimed his Cane.

This time, Vlotho charged at him and leapt into the air, preparing to pounce right on top of Sly. However, Sly managed to regain his composure enough to roll off to the side, and Vlotho landed right on the metal floor. Sly jumped to his feet first and quickly grabbed Vlotho by the back of his neck, barely lifting him up as he ran forward and slammed him up against the control panel, his face smashing against a keypad and creating a dent in the middle of the pad, cracking several keys and sending one clattering to the floor. As Vlotho tried to spin around to face his attacker, Sly raised his Cane and struck at Vlotho's face repeatedly, slamming the back of his head onto the control panel, then lifting it up and striking him back down again.

Eventually, as Sly brought his Cane down again, Vlotho raised a fist to block it. Sly tried to bring his other hand down instead, only for Vlotho to grab it with his other hand. He then lifted both legs up and, with all his might, delivered two simultaneous kicks to Sly's stomach, sending him flying off of Vlotho and allowing him to straighten up, swiping the blood off his chin.

Sly got back to his feet as Vlotho charged with one fist reared back. Sly, once again, chose to dodge to the left. However, Vlotho anticipated this for the first time, and almost perfectly moved to the left in unison with Sly. Before Sly could register this, the fist had smacked into his chest, and Sly doubled over in pain. Vlotho swung his other fist from below and up into Sly's face as he faced the ground, bringing him back up in a jolt of pain. Before he could fall backwards, Vlotho grabbed Sly by the shoulders and flung him up and to the side, slamming him down on the metal floor.

Sly was now lying with his back facing up, and Vlotho once again kneeled down to pick him up once more. This time, just as both were on their feet and Vlotho was behind Sly, Sly let out a loud battle roar and threw his whole body backward, startling Vlotho and sending both sprawling backwards to the floor. Sly rolled over and didn't even get to his feet before he grabbed Vlotho's shirt collar and started swiping at him again and again with the Cane.

After about four blows, Vlotho tried to grab the Cane as it came down, grabbing onto the stem of the Cane just below the hook and thrusting it aside. Sly shot another punch with his bare fist down at Vlotho's chin, and as he raised another one, Vlotho took hold of that hand as well with his other hand. Both of Sly's hands now firmly in his grip, he jerked Sly closer and delivered a powerful head-butt, stunning Sly as he collapsed to the floor while Vlotho jumped to his feet.

Vlotho looked down at Sly, rolled over in pain and briefly immobile, and cracked a small grin. While not as devilish as his earlier grin, it still retained some of the psychotic characteristics of the previous one.

"So…this is how it ends, isn't it Cooper?" He chuckled; a brief sound that was a cross between a snort and a grunt, but with the clear undertone of satisfaction, if not amusement. "The great Sly Cooper, the last in the line of Cooper 'master thieves,' lying like a helpless baby on the floor, rolling around in his own blood and defeat. I expected more from you, Cooper."

Then, with all his might, Vlotho reared back and stepped forward with a devastating kick from his right foot. The tip of his boot slammed into the back of Sly's head, and the impact sent him rolling a few more feet. Now he was lying on his side, facing Vlotho and only able to see his boots and legs. He coughed again, followed by a rushed and ragged intake of breath, wincing as the searing pain completely blew out all other senses. It was just pain, pain, pain…

_Thump-thump…thump-thump…_

"The man who toppled entire criminal empires, put some of the world's most feared outlaws behind bars, looted billions in artifacts, valuables, and rarities…is now this broken, bruised, and bloody heap staining my beautiful floor with his inferiority. Yes, that is what you are, Cooper: Inferior. You can never be as powerful, as strong, or as brutal as me. You don't know how easy it is to take a man's life. You, if you were in my position, would actually look down on a helpless man with pity and remorse, and consider the idea of sparing his life."

He kneeled down next to Sly, grabbing his head and lifting it up so that his fluttering, barely-open eyes looked right up at him.

"But you're not in my position. _I_ am in my position."

He then raised Sly's head up and slammed it down to the metal floor, resulting in a meaty smacking sound and a grunt from Sly. A trickle of blood flowed from his mouth and onto the metal floor. Vlotho stood up, now towering over Sly.

"I have killed many others before, with my bare hands. Fellow soldiers. Comrades. Minions. Men with wives and children. It is effortless. I don't see them as fellow living beings…I see them as my low and inferior subjects. You see, that's the trick to it all. Shut out your view of them as equal, as a fellow man, and you don't even think about it as you pull that trigger, or thrust that knife, or wrap that cord around their pitiful little necks. It's almost fun, really."

"You're sick…demented…"

"Am I, Cooper? AM I? You insolent fools could never understand! You never have, never do, and never will! That is why you must all be destroyed!"

He swung another fierce kick to Sly's side, impacting in his ribcage so hard that Sly was fairly certain that one of his ribs had just been broken.

"You stubborn, blind, senseless, stupid beasts always viewed my kind as 'demented.' All the great conquerors in history, Napoleon, Hitler…they were all viewed as 'sick' and 'demented.' They were all horribly misunderstood! What people see as different or unusual, they instantly label as negative and unpleasant! People who are trying to _help_ others, trying to improve their lives and the world around them, are viewed as monsters and _scum_! They are lashed out against, criticized, labeled as murderers and psychopaths…when it is the very people who call them that who are the _real_ fiends! Napoleon was exiled to die in misery…Hitler was surrounded and backed into a corner, and at least had the decency to take his own life rather than let the putrid scum touch him first. I will avenge them. ALL of them. They will not have died in vain. And your death shall be viewed as the first of many…the first of many disgusting pieces of slime that detested my kind who shall die by my wrath!"

As Vlotho pulled his fist back and prepared to deal another punishing blow, Sly sprang into action. He started kicking his legs wildly, spinning in a half-circle on the floor as he did so, his legs catching Vlotho's legs as he stood next to him and kicking his feet right out from under him. As Vlotho collapsed to the floor, Sly jumped up and swung his Cane down at him. Vlotho was fast, though, and grabbed it as it came down, latching his hand in under the hooked tip. As Sly quickly went on the defense and tried to pull it out of Vlotho's grasp, Vlotho rolled over and flung the Cane up over him, and Sly, still maintaining his firm grip on it, was flung up off the ground as well. Vlotho released his grip on the Cane, and both Sly and the Cane flew across the room and hit the floor.

Both were now on the floor, about 12 feet separating them. Vlotho sat up, while Sly crawled to his knees. As he shook off the shock and the pain, he glanced to the left at the control panel nearby. At first, it was hard to focus…

…then he finally noticed the keypad that had been smashed by Vlotho earlier.

Even then, it took Sly a few moments to register the potential in this discovery that he had just made.

Suddenly, a tremendous force slammed into him from the side and knocked him to the ground, throwing the wind right out of him. He then felt a series of rapid punches to his stomach and back as Vlotho viciously attacked him again and again.

In an instant, Sly reached behind him, took hold of Vlotho's shirt collar, and flipped him right up over him and threw him forward, sending him flying straight into the control panel once again. This time, with the full impact of his body, much more of the panel was smashed and ruined, with a shower of sparks emitting from it and several looser pieces flying off.

At that moment, there was a horrific sound from deep within the bowels of the Clockwerk. It sounded like a prolonged guttural growl of pain, while still maintaining the metallic and mechanical quality. Then, suddenly, there was a violent jerk to the right, sending Sly flying to the left as the Clockwerk made a sharp turn. It dipped up and down once, then again, then managed to level out, but remaining at a tilted angle.

_That's it! _Sly thought as he stood back up. His exhilaration rapidly increased, finally breathing a sigh of relief as he discovered the one true weakness of this deadly machine.

For the first time since setting foot in this Volcano valley, Sly grinned as Vlotho slid off the control panel headfirst, hitting the floor and falling over.

"Well, Vlotho…this has been quite fine and all…but if you'll excuse me now, I have a machine to destroy."

He then ran up to the next area of the control panel with his Cane raised, unleashing a loud battle roar. When he approached, he swung his Cane down at an angle, swiping it both down and sideways so that it smashed into the control panel and then swiped sideways, tearing it up as it went along like a crevice forming from an earthquake.

There was another violent jerk, this one pulling up as the Clockwerk rose up into the air. Only by shoving the tip of the Cane deeper into the smashed panel did Sly maintain a good grip so that he stayed in place as the Clockwerk veered around madly. Vlotho, still on the floor, slid around with the movements, sliding away from the wall, then back against the metal wall with a light thump. He slowly got to his knees and rubbed his head.

Then a deep, metallic male voice sounded over the speaker systems. "_Warning: Control panel has sustained damage. Control panel has sustained damage. Control panel has sustained damage. Damage level: light. Damage level: light. Damage level: light. Automatic damage control system: activated. Automatic damage control system: activated. Automatic damage control system: activated."_

After tearing a long gash in the controls, Sly looked back at the weakened badger. "It's almost too perfect, Vlotho. I honestly expected controls that were bullet, fire, and waterproof."

He raised his Cane high and smashed it down again, tearing out two dials and a gauge. The Clockwerk veered again to the left, another groaning emitting from within.

"_Damage level: medium. Damage level: medium. Damage level: medium. Automatic damage control system: running. Automatic damage control system: running. Automatic damage control system: running."_

"But perhaps you didn't expect anyone to even get in here in the first place, hm?"

He swiped it sideways, uprooting seven small levers that scattered in all directions. This time, only the head of the Clockwerk moved around, the massive yellow eyes swiveling back and forth, craning sideways, then leering up and dipping back down.

"_Damage level: medium…"_

"You felt so confident that no one, or no weapon, would ever set foot in here, that you didn't find it necessary to make these extremely resilient to attack, didn't you?"

Sly then swung his Cane down back and forth three times, slicing three gashes in the control panel farther down to the left.

"…_medium. Automatic damage control system: running…"_

By now, Vlotho had staggered to his feet.

"That is your very own fault, Vlotho. Over-confidence in yourself is merely arrogance in disguise. Isn't that what led to the deaths of all your 'predecessors?'"

Sly turned back to where Vlotho was…

…just in time to see him leap at him, fists raised. Sly was yanked off his feet as both were briefly in the air and flew across the room until they hit the floor again. Vlotho absorbed the impact and did a quick back flip, leaping off of Sly and landing perfectly on his feet, spinning around and delivering a swift kick to the side of Sly's head, sending him sprawling to the side.

"You miserable little runt. Who do you think you are talking to? Once again, you assume that I am just the same as my predecessors. In many ways, yes. But not _all_ ways."

He grabbed Sly by the throat and threw him aside, straightening out his own shirt collar before taking a rather casual stroll over to the control panel to inspect the damage.

"My predecessors did have their respective faults. But I, boy, have _no_ faults. I am _perfect_."

He stroked a hand over the multiple gashes, with their loose wires, pieces of metal, and cascades of sparks.

"I think of _everything_. And this particular scenario is no exception."

The Clockwerk roared again, veering hard to the left as it dipped down and lost some altitude. Vlotho, however, remained firmly standing where he was, with only his left hand gripping a lever holding him in place. He barely even faltered.

"While these could be called 'The Master Controls,' this was mostly just for…show. Most of these are simple temperature, electricity, and nuclear readout devices. In case I need to lighten up on the beam every now and then, or maybe need to retreat from battle to reenergize. Most of these are things that, if they ever reach critical levels, would simply be reported via the systems check on the intercom here. So, in essence, I didn't even need most of this."

Sly, still recovering from the fierce blow to the side of his head, slowly sat up. Vlotho slowly turned away from the smashed panel and back towards the pilot's chair right in front of it.

"In the event of damage to the Master Controls, I could easily pull up the alternate controls from right here, in my comfortable leather chair."

Vlotho casually leaned over the left armrest of the pilot's chair and flipped open a small lid-like apparatus, revealing a much smaller group of buttons.

"Of course, it would be very foolish indeed to even think of bringing the controls out now while you are still alive. So I shall put an end to you first."

Vlotho turned…

…only to see that Sly had vanished.

His eyes widened, and he stepped back from the chair, fists raised as he instantly turned off his casual demeanor and went on the offensive.

"WHERE ARE YOU?" He screamed, echoing back to him again and again through the empty metal chamber.

"Show yourself, you coward! SHOW YOURSELF!"

Sly was perched right on top of the chair, using his Shadow Power to maintain invisibility as he looked straight down at the controls that Vlotho had just revealed in the armrest of the chair.

There were only five buttons, arranged with two on top, one in the middle, and two on the bottom. The one on the top left was blue, the one on the top right was green, the one in the middle was red, the one on the bottom left was yellow, and the one on the bottom right was white. Underneath each button was a small word printed in black. Under the blue one was "AUXILIARY." Under the green one was "MAIN." Under the center red one was "EJECT." Under the yellow one was "REBOOT." Under the white one was "SPEAKER."

Then, making sure to throw his voice, Sly softly spoke up.

"You said that these buttons bring out the alternate controls, right?"

"Yes." Vlotho replied, perking up as he tried to zero in on the source of the voice. "But only if the five buttons are pressed rapidly in a particular sequence that, as of several minutes ago, I am the last person on Earth who knows what it is! You can try, but you won't bring it out! And smashing the buttons won't do you any good either!"

"But as long as the alternate controls are still down, the Master Controls are still the controls in charge of the Clockwerk, right?"

"Y…yes?"

"Good to know."

Then, with the silence of a ninja, Sly leapt off the top of the chair, soaring right over Vlotho's head.

While Vlotho could not see or hear the invisible intruder soar over him, he felt the ever slight rush of wind as he passed over him, and instantly spun around. Now that he knew where Sly was and why, he eased up and tried to regain his calm behavior.

"Ah…your Shadow Power technique. By far your most effective method of stealth, is it not, Cooper?"

"You could say that."

Sly landed between Vlotho and the controls. He raised the Cane up and swung it down again. Vlotho watched as a large and rather deep gash suddenly appeared in the center of the control panel.

This time, however, Sly finally had some luck and struck a significant part of the controls. This was clearly evident when the subsequent jerking movement of the Clockwerk was much more severe, tilting to an angle of about 80 degrees to one side, lurching so far that both Sly and Vlotho tumbled through the air and slammed into the left wall of the chamber. Sly was so stunned that he lost his concentration and returned to visibility.

Then a red light directly above the control panel started flashing repeatedly. It was extremely fast, flashing almost like a strobe light rather than a typical alarm light.

The voice returned. "_Damage level: high. Damage level: high. Damage level: high. Suggestion: Manual repair. Suggestion: Manual repair. Suggestion: Manual repair."_

Once the voice repeated both messages three times each, the red strobe light vanished.

Just as the Clockwerk righted itself again, Sly was knocked aside by an unseen force from behind as Vlotho attacked, slamming him up against the damaged controls. Vlotho grabbed the back of Sly's head and yanked his head back, his blue cap fluttering off to the floor. Vlotho then started repeatedly slamming Sly's head into the smashed panel again and again, each hit delivering a crunch as more damage was dealt to both Sly and the panel.

After about six hits, Sly unleashed a guttural roar and, with all his strength, threw his body backwards up against Vlotho, sending both of them stumbling backwards and loosening Vlotho's grip. Sly spun around and smacked Vlotho in the chin with his elbow, following it a split second later with a punch from the hand on the same arm. The instant double hit sent Vlotho spinning to the floor.

Sly turned around and started back towards the control panel…

…only for the same force to slam into him again, this time knocking him straight to the floor. Vlotho stood over Sly with one foot on his back, pressing down slowly and firmly.

Just as Sly started to feel the boot digging into his back, he swung his Cane up and snagged the ankle of Vlotho's foot, giving it a solid yank and pulling his foot out from under him, sending him sprawling down on top of Sly. Sly climbed out from underneath the fallen Vlotho and grabbed him by the back of his neck, lifting him up and spinning around three times before he released Vlotho, sending him flying into the control panel with a powerful impact, hitting yet another undamaged area.

This time, it really hit home.

The Clockwerk jerked once to the left, tilted to the right, then did a sudden barrel roar as it screeched horrifically. The red light flashed once again, only this time, it didn't stop. It continued flashing and flickering wildly, its nonstop flashing disorienting both men even more as they were thrown around the chamber during the roll.

"_Damage level: severe. Damage level: severe. Damage level: severe. Suggestion: Immediate manual repair and switch to alternate controls. Suggestion: Immediate manual repair and switch to alternate controls. Suggestion: Immediate manual repair and switch to alternate controls."_

It took a while for the Clockwerk to steady itself, and even then its flight was bumpy and jerky. The first to stand up again was Vlotho, who wobbled and stumbled over to the wall, placing one hand against it while Sly got to his hands and knees. With his other hand, Vlotho wiped away the trickle of blood from his mouth. The back of his hand caught a loose object in his mouth, dislodging it with a slightly painful tug. With a cough and a loud, fast spit, he shot the loosened tooth out of his mouth.

This time, it wasn't a fake.

He glanced down at the front tooth he had just lost, a bloody pulp still attached to one end and the few drops of blood it left on the clean metal floor. He could now feel a steady flow of blood constantly flowing into his mouth from the newly-opened wound. He glanced over at the spot on the control panel where he had hit, and saw the spot of blood.

He glared at the man responsible.

Just as Sly staggered to his feet, stumbling to the side like a drunken man, he heard a low, fierce growl coming from the opposite wall.

Sly turned around and saw Vlotho, wobbling on his feet, blood trickling from his mouth, teeth barred, and a look of pure hatred and fury in his flaming eyes. His fists were clenched, and his breath flared out his nostrils.

Then, ever so smoothly and steadily, his right hand unclenched and moved towards the left side of his hip, where Sly noticed a large sheath with a handle protruding from it. He watched as the fingers of Vlotho's right hand slid into each of the rings of the handle like a pair of brass knuckles. He re-clenched his fist and slowly drew his weapon. Sly watched in horror and astonishment as the 20-inch long gold blade was pulled out and waved threateningly in his direction, the lights from the control panel reflecting brilliantly off the gold surface. He instantly took note of three things: the ragged, steak knife-like edge on one side, the extremely thin edge of the other side, and the spikes on each of the handle's rings. He could already tell from a quick glance that this was a very deadly weapon.

"You have crossed the line, my boy. I didn't want to have to resort to my personal favorite weapon, as it is certain to deal a crippling, or even fatal, blow. But you have left me with no choice. Playtime is over. Prepare to die."

The blade raised high, Vlotho charged at Sly with a new energy. Unlike before, the wild and unbelievable amount of determination ever present in the psychotic badger showed itself in his terrifying battle roar and his wide, almost demonic eyes.

Sly instantly went on the defensive, throwing his body to the side as the blade came down, slicing the air where he had been standing. Vlotho didn't even pause, swinging the blade to the right after Sly as a direct continuation of his previous move. Sly leapt over the blade and jumped back, while Vlotho swung again, the movement flowing perfectly with his previous moves as if his rampage was one long attack. Sly found himself desperate to avoid the blade, dodging left, right, ducking and jumping, backing up all over the chamber as the blade pursued him relentlessly. He feared leaping over Vlotho to land behind him, as he figured that the blade was easily long enough to catch him while he was in the air. Vlotho put all of his energy into each and every swing, showing no signs of tiring. With every wild swing, his eyes rolled like billiard balls, his whole body swinging in motion with the fierce blade. His repeated shouts intermittently sounded with each swing. Even with only one hand, the incredible amount of power and speed put into each swing was unbelievable. The flashing red light certainly didn't help either. With the constant flashing between red and pitch black, Vlotho's movements were repeatedly cut off like a film reel, his blade over his shoulder one moment and already straight out towards Sly the next, with the movement in between completely absent.

Now Sly was unknowingly thrust into a deadly dance, with Vlotho acting as the psychotic puppeteer who felt like throwing his puppet into a tornado. Every direction Vlotho moved, Sly moved opposite. It became clear that Vlotho was not going to get tired anytime soon, and all Sly could do was dodge and avoid him at any cost. As the one-sided fight continued, all that Sly could hear were three things: The rapid swinging of the blade through the air, Vlotho's grunts with each swing, and…

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump…_

With each and every frantic movement, Sly could feel his body weakening, growing more and more tired, his limbs starting to ache, his heartbeat increasing rapidly, his lungs on the verge of collapsing…it burned…burned…

Only when Vlotho's back was to the control panel did Sly dare to steal a brief glance in the direction of the controls. He knew now that to try to smash the controls himself, even for a split second, would result in an instant hit from behind. The amount of time between each of Vlotho's swings was almost non-existent. The flashing lights disoriented Sly, making him exert even more energy as he feared that Vlotho might struck in the brief moments of darkness.

He knew that it would only be a matter of time before he finally lost the energy to continue dodging. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before Vlotho's blade finally connected with him. Whether it was the thin, precise end or the thick, ragged end, the blow would surely be devastating, if not immediately fatal.

As he continued dodging, he looked into Vlotho's wild eyes, still rolling around uncontrollably, his only goal to hit Sly…

Then it finally occurred to Sly what he must do, both to save himself and still damage the Clockwerk's master controls enough…

Still refusing to risk a complete jump over Vlotho by himself, Sly started weaving his dodges side-to-side and working to turn Vlotho around and put his own back to the control panel. He then started backing straight up, Vlotho following him relentlessly.

Then, before he knew it, he felt the cold, hard surface against his back, and reached behind himself to grab the edge of the panel and throw himself backwards, higher up on the metal slope, just as Vlotho's blade came down once more.

Just as Sly had planned, it sliced straight down through a series of buttons and two levers, shooting out more sparks and pieces of metal. He had struck the panel with the thinner edge of the blade, slicing clean through and deep into the inner workings of the panel. It was clear that this blow was far more severe than any others it had sustained thus far.

Now, in addition to the flashing light, a low alarm sounded, blaring for two seconds with a half-second pause in between. The voice returned for the fifth time:

"_Damage level: critical. Damage level: critical. Damage level: critical. Master Controls irreparable. Master Controls irreparable. Master Controls irreparable. Suggestion: Immediate switch to alternate controls. Suggestion: Immediate switch to alternate controls. Suggestion: Immediate switch to alternate controls._"

"NO!" Vlotho roared, realizing that he had been fooled. He yanked the blade out of the controls and raised his death glare to Sly, now more furious than ever.

"NO!" He repeated. "I have never known defeat, and I shall not know it today!"

With that, he spun around and sprinted towards the chair, pulling his fingers out of the ringed handle of the blade and placing it under his arm as he leaned over the small panel of five buttons on the armrest of the chair, rapidly pressing them in a specific order.

Yellow, White, Red, Yellow, Blue.

At this, a portion of the metal floor directly in front of the chair split in half, both halves of the rectangular lid sliding open to reveal a hole in the floor. After a second, a console on a metal pole rose up out of the hole. This console – the alternate controls panel – was only about three feet long and a foot and a half wide, with a smaller assortment of buttons, levers, dials, and readouts.

This was it.

Sly leapt up off the ruined master control panel and charged towards the alternate controls, his Cane raised high above his head. He knew that this was perhaps the only moment where Vlotho's blade was not an immediate threat, and Vlotho was not in the chair yet to man the controls himself.

However, Vlotho already anticipated this, and waited until Sly was just above the controls. He then leapt up himself and swung his fist as hard as he could, his body turning in midair as he put all his strength into the blow. Sly felt the powerful impact in his stomach and was sent flying straight back to where he came from, slamming against the damaged master controls. He laid flat and spread out across the controls, slowly sliding down the slanted panel towards the floor, his eyes fixated on the ceiling directly above him in shock. He registered not only the pain of the blow, but the pain of the impact, as well as several sharp fragments of metal from the damaged areas digging into his back. He could already feel the blood leaking out onto the panel beneath him…

Just as his torso was the only part of his body on top of the panel itself, he saw Vlotho rearing over him, the blade raised high in both hands and a look of bloodlust and hate in his eyes.

With what little energy Sly had, he tried to roll to the side.

It was too late.

His Cane instantly slid from his hand, sliding down the panel and clattering to the floor with a wooden clank.

All at once, Sly felt lightning, fire, a shotgun blast, and a jackhammer all bear down on his body in a heartbeat. It was that one moment of numbness, of stillness, of coldness as the horrible, hard, cold blade smashed through his flesh, tissue, and muscle with impeccable strength and precision, tearing through every layer of his body and piercing straight through to the control panel below, its bloodied tip penetrating the surface of the ruined panel and pinning his body to the metal surface.

And the sound. The horrible sound…

Then it slammed back at him with the force of flying into a brick wall 10 feet thick at 400 miles per hour. The pain was unimaginable in every way. He had never felt anything quite like it before in his life. Not even when he was struck by a bolt of lightning and sent flying over 50 feet in the African jungle, or knocked completely unconscious when a massive staff lined with sharp talons was thrown straight at his head, or when he was crushed in the fist of a massive mutated monster and dropped 20 feet to the ground right afterwards, or hit by a deadly fireball in a collapsing cave. This pain was the kind of pain that truly took over the mind, every single sense of the body, and dominated your very being with its horrible torment.

He threw his head back and unleashed the loudest, longest, most devastating scream he had ever given in his whole life. At the exact moment when it started, he could both feel and see the jet of blood shoot out of his mouth, whipping up into the air and falling back down, several drops staining his face on his cheeks, nose, and forehead. His eyes squeezed shut just as the tears started forming up, fighting against his eyelids to pour out in rivers down his face. His fists clenched so tightly that his gloves tore, his claws piercing through each and every one of the gloves' fingertips and puncturing the fur and flesh of his palms. Every other muscle except for the punctured ones tightened hard enough to snap, and his flesh ran cold. His heartbeat now, more than ever, was like a locomotive's engine.

_-_

Vlotho stood over his crippled foe, staring down at him as he was pinned to the very control panel that he had worked so hard to destroy, helpless before him like a lamb to the slaughter. His own blood ran down from the wound, his palms, and his mouth, staining the ruined metal and dripping down the crevices around him in the areas he had helped to damage in the first place. His deep, horrified, painful scream was music to his ears. For a few pleasant moments, the scream was the only sound Vlotho could hear, even drowning out the alarm and the roars of the erratic Clockwerk that they were both inside. He gained thorough satisfaction, even enjoyment, from seeing his opponent in so much pain and torture that, even despite his earlier bursts of pure rage and energy, he lightened up, his fists unclenching, his muscles relaxing, and he grinned.

Then he chuckled.

The chuckle grew into a steady laugh, barely audible even to himself. Then it slowly grew louder and louder, with more energy put into it, his eyes closing as he lost himself in his own laughter. He threw his head back and started laughing maniacally, unable to control himself as he immersed in his own pleasure at someone else's misery.

Eventually, both Vlotho's laugh and Sly's scream died down at the same time. Vlotho stared down at his victim while Sly continued staring up at the ceiling.

For a few long moments, Sly's breathing stopped immediately after the scream. Only one thought was still soaring through his otherwise empty mind.

_I'm dead…I'm dead…I'm…dead…?_

He managed to find enough energy in himself to roll his eyes down and stare down the length of his body, down at his own torso.

The blade was nowhere in sight.

Then, with twice the amount of energy it took to look down, he looked to the left.

The blade was lodged in his left arm, piercing through his upper arm just above the elbow.

Vlotho, still not done having fun with torturing Sly, casually leaned over, placing one elbow directly on the handle of the blade, tilting it over and pressing it in deeper. Another jolt of pain shook Sly's body, and he screamed again, though not nearly as loud as the previous scream.

Vlotho chuckled again, leaning in close to Sly's face while his elbow was still against the handle of the blade. He drew so close that he could smell the sweat and blood dripping off his opponent's face, and his raspy, fast breathing was loud enough to be heard amidst the mechanical chaos around them.

"You know what they say, Cooper…"

He laughed again.

"You can't have 'slaughter' without 'laughter'!"

He then reared back, taking his elbow off the blade's handle, and laughed loudly and triumphantly, his terrifying psychotic laugh echoing off the walls.

Suddenly, there was another jolt as the Clockwerk jerked to one side, ripping Vlotho out of his world of victory and amusement and back to reality.

He looked back down at his motionless victim with a serious face.

"I can see that you aren't going anywhere. I must waste no more time in transferring to the alternate controls now, so I'll take care of that first…then I'll rip your heart out. So be a good boy and just stay put."

He then spun around and walked back to the chair, sliding in between the chair and the newly-raised alternate control panel. He eased into the leather seat and leaned forward over the new controls.

Sly's eyes slowly fell from the ceiling back down towards Vlotho, staring widely at him as he sat in the chair and pondered over the controls.

Sly then slowly looked at the blade still lodged firmly in his arm. Just looking at it made it hurt even more. He could only stare in mute horror as the blood ran down his arm and onto the panel through the wound, both on top and below. The blade's gold surface glimmered eerily under the red spots on the areas higher up the blade, its ringed handle wavering slightly at the other end like a flag with every breathing movement Sly made.

Sly was repulsed at the very thought of it, but he knew what he had to do. He stole one final glance over at Vlotho, who appeared to have slight difficulty trying to figure out the alternative controls, clearly not expecting actually having to use them.

Sly then turned back to the blade, staring at its firm, hard presence in his left arm. Mustering up all the strength he had, but trying his hardest to keep quiet, he reached over with his spare hand for the blade. As his hand drew nearer, he repeatedly looked back and forth between Vlotho – to make sure he hadn't noticed – and the blade, fearing the moment he would have to move it, and the unbelievable amount of self-control it would take to avoid screaming.

Then his hand was on the blade.

He paused, biting his tongue furiously to avoid screaming as the blade moved ever so slightly from the touch. He slowly wrapped his fist around the blade at its halfway point, gripping it firmly. The handle was too high up, so he had to resort to grabbing the blade itself. He ever so slightly lifted, and already found himself opening his mouth. He slammed it shut, bit down on his tongue and the inside of his cheeks, and glanced over at Vlotho again. He still had not noticed him.

He glanced back at the blade, realizing how much further he had to go. He knew that, if he continued along like this, bit by bit, Vlotho would already have the controls transferred, and would come back to finish Sly off.

He had to remove it in one movement, fast and without hesitation.

Steeling up all the physical and mental strength that he had left in him, Sly tightened his grip on the blade, said a quick prayer in his mind, and then yanked up.

He slid off the control panel and to the floor, free of the blade's grip, all while unleashing another long, painful scream as the pain returned with a vengeance. He nearly dropped the blade, but quickly remembered the other occupant of the room.

Vlotho, although reluctant to leave the controls, was already out of the chair and moving swiftly towards Sly, a look in his eyes that resembled a blend of shock and anger. His fists were clenched.

As Sly sank to the floor, his left arm dangling limply, he let the blade fall in his other hand until he was gripping the handle. He raised it up over his head and, with all his might, threw it like a javelin directly at Vlotho. The badger, stunned at Sly's display of strength in the midst of such pain, dodged to the side as the blade flew past his chest, missing by mere inches. He looked back at Sly for a brief moment…

Then, suddenly, there was a sharp, loud sound behind him. The sound of crunching as metal split apart, along with the familiar crackle of a shower of sparks. Vlotho spun on his heels to look back at where the sound had come from.

His golden blade was lodged in the alternate control console, nearly halfway in and its protruding end still wobbling lightly, the cascade of sparks settling on the metal floor, pieces of metal still flying, and multiple lights flickering crazily at once as the controls were destroyed.

Vlotho's eyes widened.

"No…No…NO!"

Then there was another burst of sparks, significantly larger and more powerful, shooting out in a thin jet directly in the middle of the panel, splitting it wide open.

The voice returned for the final time.

"_Alternate control panel has sustained damage. Alternate control panel has sustained damage. Alternate control panel has sustained damage. Damage level: fatal. Damage level: fatal. Damage level: fatal. Alternate controls: irreparable. Alternate controls: irreparable. Alternate controls: irreparable. System failure. System failure. System failure._"

Vlotho spun around wildly, all at once consumed by disorientation from the flashing red light and monotone, repeating voice, shock from the reality of what was truly happening to him and his greatest creation, and pure anger and hatred for the man who caused this all.

He finally stopped spinning, clutching at both sides of his head so hard that he scratched his head and drew some slight drops of blood, about to fall to his knees in despair, when he managed to raise his head enough to stare down his rival.

"…_You_…"

He slowly lifted one finger and aimed it at Sly.

"…_You…_"

Sly, still tightly clutching his bleeding arm, wobbled to his feet. Despite all the horrible pain he was still reeling from, he managed to steel his courage and restore his wit, daring to taunt Vlotho with the power of the spoken word.

"You didn't count on ever having to use the alternate controls, Vlotho. Didn't you? And you felt that, even if the Master Controls were damaged and you had to use the alternate controls, you wouldn't have to worry about repeating the same mistake that allowed the original controls to be destroyed in the first place. Didn't you?"

Vlotho's finger slowly curled back down, his hand returning to a tightly clenched fist.

"…_You_…"

"You felt so overconfident in yourself, Vlotho. Didn't you? You never even had to worry about someone actually penetrating the Clockwerk's defenses and breaking into the control room. Didn't you? You see, Vlotho, you _did_ have a fatal flaw, just like your predecessors. You didn't know it at the time, and probably still don't know it, but it is the exact same flaw that they all had. It takes many different names, but is the same general thing: Stubbornness. Arrogance. Pride. Overconfidence. The belief that you could accomplish more than you really could, and that no one could tell you otherwise, or prove otherwise, or defy you in any way. Even those who had the guts to try to tell you, if you didn't simply kill them, you just wouldn't listen to them. You were so enveloped in your own belief that it was your destiny to follow your predecessors' footsteps that you never realized how much you truly would be just like your predecessors. You have made the same mistake, and will die because of it. The only difference – the one and only thing that makes you different from the rest of them – is the fact that you will die nameless. No one will ever know who you were, or what you attempted to do."

"…_I…will…kill…you."_

Vlotho's voice was not even slightly raised, nor did it have any true signs of rage or insanity. But rather, it was so deep, so firm, and so slow that it was clear how much determination Vlotho had to destroy Sly, out of the slightest attempt to repay all the damage that had been done.

Vlotho turned around and dragged his feet over to the ruined alternate control panel, grabbing onto the handle of the blade moments before the Clockwerk veered hard to the right, tilting so much that Sly slid over and slammed against the far wall, landing on his damaged arm and sending a whole new wave of pain through his arm and body. He let out a yell and a groan of pain, fighting it off as best he could to look up in the direction of the alternate control panel. Vlotho was hanging as well, his feet dangling about 20 feet above the wall that was now almost the floor. He maintained a firm grip on the handle, which was lodged deep in the control panel. His eyes were still locked on Sly with a fiery hate like never before…

The Clockwerk righted itself for a few seconds, enough for Vlotho to yank the blade out amidst another shower of sparks, before tilting over again and sending Sly sliding towards the other wall. At that moment, Vlotho leapt out at him, blade raised high in both hands, aimed at Sly. Sly then turned and moved with the slant, moving faster towards the other wall just as Vlotho's blade swung down behind him. Vlotho hit the floor and slid as well, heading for the wall. Sly, now leaning back against the wall, threw himself to the side as Vlotho hit the wall next to him.

However, Sly soon realized that he was lying flat on the wall, then he was starting to move up the wall, towards the ceiling. The Clockwerk, out of its pure confusion and severe damage, was doing a barrel roll. The continuously flashing lights still didn't help, and it took Sly several seconds to get his bearing and flip over moments before he hit the ceiling, landing on his back instead of hitting head-first. He was now looking up at the control panel, the alternate control panel, and the chair above him.

Vlotho also turned himself over as he slid to the ceiling, quickly standing up as the ceiling now became the floor, and charged at Sly. Sly leapt up and dodged to the side as the blade came down. He ran around Vlotho and dashed towards his Cane, lying on the ceiling nearby, directly below the master control panel. He swiped it up and spun around just as Vlotho charged again, raising the hook to catch the blade as it came down. He then heaved up and sent Vlotho sprawling backwards. He ran forward and swung wildly, hitting Vlotho in the side of the ribcage and sending him stumbling to the side, crashing to the floor, and sliding a few feet, his blade clattering along the floor.

Then the Clockwerk started to right itself again, the ceiling slanting. Sly glanced up at the pilot's chair on the floor nearby, and got an idea. With the little level ground he had left, he dashed towards the spot directly below the chair just as the Clockwerk was halfway through the roll. He then leapt up as high as he could, raising the Cane up in his hands and hooking the underside of the alternate control panel just as he swung over so that his feet dangled over the opposite wall. He held on tightly as the Clockwerk leveled out, the floor now below him once again. He slammed to the metal floor just in front of the panel and, after a brief moment, pulled himself up to the control panel and slid in between the panel and the seat. He leaned over the small panel of five buttons, and focused on the red one in the middle.

"EJECT."

He pressed it, and through the blaring siren, the voice returned.

"_Emergency eject sequence activated. Emergency eject sequence activated. Emergency eject sequence activated. Pilot is to fasten safety belt and prepare for immediate ejection. Pilot is to fasten safety belt and prepare for immediate ejection. Pilot is to fasten safety belt and prepare for immediate ejection._"

Sly glanced over at Vlotho, still lying on the floor between the wall and the floor. He slowly crawled to his knees.

At that moment, there was a sudden jolt that shook the chair in its place. Sly grabbed the armrests to hold on for a moment. He then heard a metallic rumble behind him and turned around in the chair. He then saw a portion of the floor split open into two halves, similarly to how the alternate controls rose out of the floor, and the two halves slide open to reveal a long rectangular hole beneath the floor, about fifteen feet long and barely two feet wide. From the hole rose a flat rectangular platform that slid neatly into the vacant space, with a long track on it. The chair then began a slow, steady, and smooth sliding movement backwards, fitting perfectly on the track and slowly moving away from the ruined alternate control panel. It slid further away from the front of the room and more towards the center. Sly looked at the very end of the track, then straight up at the ceiling directly above it. He noticed now that the track ended directly below the same hatch that he had come in through earlier.

He turned around and looked again at Vlotho, who was just beginning to climb to his feet. Sly spun around once more and saw how much of the track remained. He realized that it was taking too long, and that Vlotho had more than enough time to approach him before the chair reached the end of the track.

With one last look at the end of the track and the hatch above it, Sly leapt out of the chair, Cane raised in one hand as he ran up behind Vlotho, still struggling to get to his feet.

Just as Vlotho turned around, the end of Sly's Cane struck him a devastating blow right in the nose, sending him spinning around and crashing right back down to the floor. This time, Sly would show no mercy. Just as Vlotho hit the floor, Sly raised his Cane and brought it down again, slamming his ribcage. He brought it down a third time, hitting his right shoulder. He hit Vlotho again and again, repeatedly, persistently, refusing to allow him even a brief second to retaliate. His blade was still clutched firmly in one hand, his fingers still wrapped in the rings.

Then, as Sly prepared to bring the Cane down on his neck, Vlotho finally managed to deliver a blow in the brief, split-second period between the two hits, swinging his blade out and slicing Sly's right shin. Sly roared in pain and stumbled backwards, his Cane lowered once more.

Vlotho wiped the blood off his face and sat up.

Sly, still reeling in pain, swung out wildly and delivered a sharp blow to Vlotho's forehead, sending the lunatic right back down to the floor, sprawled out on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Sly was about to hit again when he remembered the chair. He spun around and saw it well over the halfway mark of the track, now with barely four feet left on the track before it was directly under the hatch. He glanced up at the hatch once more and saw that it was already beginning to open, sliding inward much more slowly than it had before, moving at the same pace as the chair on the track.

While Sly was distracted, Vlotho took the opportunity once more and sat up, swinging again. This swing connected with the back of Sly's left knee, drawing more blood and instantly causing his leg to fall, sending him crumbling to the floor with another yelp.

Vlotho stumbled to his feet and stood over Sly, sword raised high above him, prepared to finally bring it down on Sly.

Sly vanished once again.

Vlotho's eyes widened and the blade shook in his hands.

"NO!"

He swung the blade down, only for it to smash against the metal with a loud clink and a sharp scraping sound.

He raised the blade and looked up, glancing wildly in all directions once more. His eyes eventually fell on the chair, which was barely two feet from the end of the track.

"You may not be visible, Cooper, but you're not invincible! There's only one way out for you, and I know what it is!"

Vlotho dashed over to the chair, quickly sliding in.

"Even if my greatest weapon is destroyed, I shall survive! I will survive, and you will die! I will have my revenge on your friends and the world! It may take years, but I'll find another way…"

He reached for one half of the safety belt with one hand, but found himself unable to firmly grasp the other half with the blade in his hand. He quickly slid his fingers out of the rings and set it on the right armrest, but it easily fell off due to the chair's constant movement. It clattered to the floor. Vlotho was too distracted with fastening the seat belt to notice the blade as it was subtly picked up off the floor, seemingly lifted up by an invisible source.

Vlotho locked the two metal halves together and pulled the tightening strap, leaning back casually in the chair, his hands gripping the armrests firmly…

Then there was a blinding, deafening, heart-stopping moment of pain as Vlotho felt a cold, hard, and terrible presence suddenly emerge from his chest. His head snapped back and he screamed in agonizing pain, his voice significantly higher in pitch from the sheer shock of the moment. At the same time, he spit out a gobbet of blood, which jetted up into the air and fell back down, staining his face and the back of the chair he sat in.

His head dropped, and he managed to open his eyes to see the blade – _his _blade – penetrating his body, its ugly, blood-covered tip speared right through his chest from behind.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone again, with a whole new feeling of pain accompanying the sudden absence that made the blade's presence more comfortable. He screamed again and threw his whole body forward, tugging against the safety belt and spewing more blood from his mouth. His hands left the safety and firmness of the armrests to clutch his pierced chest. He was nearly falling out of the chair…

Then an invisible force casually worked on the metal locking of the belt, pulling them apart and letting the badger's slumped form tumble out of the chair and roll across the metal floor. He stopped lying flat across the rail, on his back, looking up at the ceiling, the wide-open hatch in his field of vision, and the chair moving out of his line of sight.

Then, suddenly, a shape materialized moments later off to the left, obstructing his view of the hatch. It was Cooper, holding his own Cane in one hand and Vlotho's blade in the other – the hand at the end of his ruined arm.

After a long silence, Sly effortlessly tossed the blade down so that it clattered across Vlotho's chest, jolting him with another blast of pain that caused him to groan again. Even after the pain died down for a few moments, Vlotho's breathing was still fast, choppy, and strained. The cold, hard, heavy presence of the blade on his chest did little to drown out the warmth of the thick liquid now oozing down his chest on both sides, as well as a thin trickle from his mouth. He coughed, choked, and then slightly turned to face Cooper.

"How even more fitting." Sly sneered. "Like several other would-be conquerors in the past, you met your end by your very own weapon."

Without another word, Sly turned and walked back to the chair, sitting down and buckling himself in, tightening the strap even more to fit his smaller, slender frame as opposed to the badger's larger bulk. He gripped his Cane firmly in both hands, looking straight ahead at the Master Control panel now farther away, through the thick yellow eyes above them as the Clockwerk continued its unsteady flight.

Then the chair reached the end of the track, and was directly beneath the hatch.

"_Pilot's seat is beneath the hatch. Emergency ejection in 5…4…3…2…1…zero. Eject._"

With a sudden blast, the chair shot out from its place as the small propulsion system built into the underside of the chair activated. With a brief burst of fire and white smoke, it shot straight up and through the hatch.

With what little energy he had left, Vlotho slowly extended one hand up towards the open hatch that the white plume of smoke trailed through, as the hatch started to close. Even through the labored breathing and intense pain, he still managed to shout one final time.

"_COOPER!_"

Then the hatch was closed, severing the white smoke tower and silencing Vlotho's cry.

…

The Clockwerk roared horrifically once again, its head twisting around in a circle and even craning backwards, its mouth wide open as it shot out its cry. One wing flapped straight up, while the other one curled down closer to the body. Its bulk leaned to one side, moving in a slanted fall before righting itself. It then stopped and jerked back upwards, leaning back and nearly doing a mid-air somersault. It screeched again, its head shaking back and forth, its massive jaws opening and closing rapidly with loud clanks of metal. As it aimed down, the two eyes shot out beams of light that left two adjacent yellow circles on the ground, moving around wildly as it briefly aimed straight down before veering back up in its erratic flight. The talons repeatedly opened and close, the toes retracting in and out, slicing against each other and leaving scrapes on their metal exteriors. The tail wings flapped up and down just as regularly as the wings, their movement consistent throughout the entire flight. The lack of flight patterns, severity of the jerking movements, level of the screeches and howls, and repeated rising and falling all demonstrated a scene of pain, confusion, and intense disorientation.

Then, at one moment, all of this finally collided together in a horrible cacophony of confusion as the Clockwerk's dying movements ceased. There was a split second of brief pause, in which not a single part of the Clockwerk's massive metal frame moved. Then, ever so suddenly, both wings folded up neatly along the length of the main body, encasing it between the two massive metal appendages like an impromptu metal cocoon. It then started spiraling wildly out of control, spinning around in rapid rotations like a propeller, and soaring like a missile. All the while, its mouth was still wide open as it screeched a horrible death rattle that echoed throughout the entire valley.

Then its spiral moved downwards. By now, it was in the air between the destroyed hangar and the destroyed tip of the facility. It started slanting down at an angle that was, at first, barely noticeable. Then its slope increased and it was heading further down and down, dropping out of the sky faster than a speeding locomotive. It was now aiming for about the midsection of the bulk of the facility, and the speed still increasing.

Then came the impact.

Almost perfectly, the Clockwerk was exactly upright when it collided with the building somewhere in the midsection, between the factory and the already-destroyed tip. Its head penetrated the ceiling first, the beak sharper and more precise than a surgical scalpel, slicing through the weaker, thinner metal of the ceiling like a laser. This was accompanied by a horrible ear-piercing sound of metal against metal, a loud, high-pitched screech like a steak knife on a metal chair or nails on a chalkboard as the beak slid along the roof for a few seconds before puncturing through it. As it penetrated the building, there was a shower of sparks as the collision severed all the electrical wires in the ceiling, destroying the lighting system all throughout the facility at once. There was a collective burst of sparks from each and every single light in the entire facility, both regular and emergency lights, at the exact same second before all light winked out completely. The facility was now enshrouded in complete, total darkness as the lights were destroyed and the stars were already blocked out by the rising smoke. The one and only light was the Clockwerk's two yellow eyes as they smashed through the roof and into the hallway below. The ceiling instantly started caving in, large chunks of the Karovanine crumbling in from the impact and slamming to the floor, crumbling into even smaller pieces. The massive Clockwerk was far too wide for the relatively narrower hallway, slamming right through the walls on both sides, knocking them down and spreading them aside, the walls falling flat to the ground either outside the building or into the adjoining areas like doors being kicked right in. As the Clockwerk hit the hallway's floor, it pulverized the floor and caused it to crumble under the pressure and impact as well, instantly destroying the flat surface, shifting the foundation, and leveling the floor. Multiple fissures instantly appeared, tainting the perfect metal surface, first appearing right at the impact zone and then spreading rapidly like an earthquake as the Clockwerk slid along. Sparks and chunks of Karovanine were flying in all directions, surrounding the Clockwerk itself like a hellish veil of chaos and destruction, following it as it slid along further and further through the facility. Despite the massive amount of obstacles in the Clockwerk's path, it was easily smashing through all of them without even showing signs of slowing down. All of the metal walls, doors, the floor, and larger, thicker walls separating sections of the facility; all were destroyed by the crashing beast.

It was barely a minute or so of the Clockwerk just smashing through the facility, scraping along and upsetting the entire central structure, bulldozing through the single long hallway right in the middle of the entire facility that acted as the spinal cord, thus delivering a deadly blow to the building's structural integrity. It blazed a trail straight through to the factory, crushing such landmarks from Bentley and Murray's trek such as the empty firing range, catwalk, and the Russian cat's body. It tore right through the fork in the hallway, heading more down the path to right, straight into the factory. It easily crushed the Colonel's body and blew down the ruined doorway. It was here that most of the floor gave out, as the bottom of the factory was far below the level of the ground itself that, up until now, had kept the Clockwerk just on the floor of the facility itself without falling right through. Here, the massive bulk of the factory dropped off into a massive pit that was nearly as large as the Clockwerk itself. Once it crossed that threshold and into the factory, it smashed through the metal platform directly in front of the door, as well as the staircase leading down from it and some of the main platform at the bottom of said staircase. As it fell straight through these suspended metal platforms like a rock through wet paper, it crushed the body of the late sentry Knox, as well as several of the nearest control consoles and other pieces of machinery. As it smashed through the tip of the long, wide main platform, it was like slamming a block of lead onto one end of a teeter-totter, with the other side containing a bunch of small pebbles. It flung straight up, casting looser pieces of equipment up into the air, colliding with each other in mid-air, smashing against the wall, falling to the floor below, and some even flying high enough to hit the ceiling high above.

Smashing through the metal platforms, the Clockwerk's frame fell straight to the floor of the factory below, smashing a crater in the floor once again and still moving forward. Only now, it didn't have very far to go. For, just a few hundred feet in front of the Clockwerk now, directly ahead of it on the factory floor, were the first of several massive steel silos containing hundreds of Mech Eggs, stacked up on top of each other, and all lined up in neat rows like giant dominoes. The Clockwerk continued sliding, noticeably losing its momentum from before but still steadily moving. It closed in on the first few silos in a matter of seconds. It slammed directly between two of the silos, uprooting them from their places and knocking both of them over. As they fell, they were pushed ahead slightly further as they fell by the metal behemoth between them, pushing them along. For this reason, they had barely fallen over halfway before they impacted into the next two silos in line, knocking them over as well. Just as this second pair of silos started to fall over, the Mech Eggs in the first two silos had tumbled around enough so that the collisions between several of them against each other, the walls of the silos, or against the floor as they spilled out were so great that it penetrated the Eggs' shells and ignited the Attack Robots within, inadvertently setting off the self-destruct features.

The ensuing explosions, about two or three at most occurring simultaneously, were more than enough to set off a chain reaction.

Within seconds, the amount of explosions, so fantastic from each one, had enough accumulated force to spread their powerful fireballs out to the next silos, and the next, and the next, and those that were farther away on either side, which had not been hit by the sliding Clockwerk. Thousands upon thousands of the explosions all combined together in one powerful explosion that easily engulfed the entire factory, rising up to the twisted, barely-surviving metal platforms higher up above the fallen silos, engulfing and igniting the remaining machinery and equipment, setting off even more explosions from the electrical equipment as they were also consumed.

Within 30 seconds, the entire factory was engulfed inside and out by the massive fireball, multiple explosions tearing apart the building as holes were blown into the walls, floor, and ceiling. Debris was flying all around inside the building like a tornado of fire, and the blast found one particular escape route amidst the chaos: The elevator shaft. The blast incinerated the elevator doors, shattered the elevator car, and instantly shot up the shaft, blasting out the glass portion of the shaft and still relentlessly traveling up the shaft. As it did, the force of the blast noticeably took a toll on the section of the Volcano wall that the shaft was attached to, blowing out chunks of rocks and sending deep, wide fissures writhing along the wall, up and down, and to the sides. The blast shot straight up to the top of the shaft, blowing out the doors at the top and unleashing the fireball into the elegant Commander's chamber, instantly incinerating everything in the room: The potted plants, both standing and fallen; the paintings, both hanging and broken; the carpet; the chandelier; the ruined desk; and whatever remained of the massive window. It was all burned to a crisp and then thrown out the opposite wall where the window had been, tumbling and fluttering down into the crater below. The fire shot out the ruined window frame, curling up into the sky directly above the Volcano crater as it slowly transitioned into black smoke, conglomerating with the smoke rising steadily from the lava in the crater and riding up into the sky as one smoke tower. The force of the explosion in the elevator shaft was enough to blow out the foundation of the Commander's chamber, which shook and rattled in its place upon the immediate blast. For a few seconds after the blast blew out the window and wisped away into the sky, the chamber was still. Then the cracks began racing around in the rock beneath the chamber, splitting into smaller pieces and breaking apart directly beneath the metal structure that depended on that very rock. The foundation ruined and falling apart, the chamber itself began to move around as if set on top of many logs, shifting back and forth slowly, moving further in each direction with each back-and-forth movement like a rocking chair. Then, as it moved forward towards the crater, some of the rock beneath it broke away and tumbled out, falling into the lava below. Its foundation now falling out beneath it, the chamber was now even more unstable. It moved back again, a quarter of the building hanging over the edge over where the elevator shaft had been, then rolled back forward again with noticeably increased speed. With this next forward movement, more rocks tumbled out in greater quantities, both in size and numbers. By now, nearly half of the foundation beneath the chamber had slid right out from under the chamber and into the Volcano. The building's stability bending like a wire and the foundation breaking away like clods of dirt or weathered rocks beaten constantly by the tide, the chamber finally gave in and slid too far forward. Breaking away from the root that was the ruined elevator shaft, it slid forward towards the crater, dipping down at a sharp angle as it finally left the Cliffside and tumbled freely off the edge, plunging straight down towards the lava in the crater. It slammed into the surface of the lava, kicking up a massive tidal wave of lava that spread out in all directions, reaching as high as halfway up the cliff wall, between the surface of the lava and the perch that the chamber had just left. After the initial impact, it stopped for a few moments, bobbing up and down like a cork in water, before it slowly continued sliding straight down into the molten liquid, steam rising from it furiously and in massive amounts, the tower of steam emanating from it as thick as a curtain. Then the building slipped straight down beneath the surface, disappearing with one last splash of lava in several large drops.

Meanwhile, around the same time that the chamber began its fateful drop from the perch straight down into the lava below, the integrity of the Volcano wall where the elevator shaft had been was giving in just as rapidly. The cracks were now much larger, spreading out much farther. Many large chunks of rocks had fallen out, tumbling down to the factory roof below, smashing to pieces and leaving dents in the metal. In some areas, drops of lava were squeezing their way through the cracks, as the stone wall that held back the tons of devastating lava, the one barrier between the lava and the facility below, began to finally die.

And then it happened.

One particularly large fragment of rock shot out from its place, approximately 30 feet wide and 50 feet tall, breaking away and plunging straight down to the factory below, breaking into three fragments and leaving a large indent in the roof. One of the three fragments tumbled off the edge of the roof and into the rocky terrain behind the facility, while the other two remained on the roof. After this piece fell out, a steady stream of lava started pouring out from the newly-vacated space like a fountain from Hell. This allowed the penetration to quickly spread to all other fissures and areas where rock had broken from, and the wall collectively collapsed. Dozens upon dozens of pieces fell out or shot out, fissures breaking wide open, and many smaller streams of lava all combined into one as a massive waterfall of lava. This massive waterfall poured out for all of about four seconds before the rest of the wall gave way. The entire height of the rock wall, from the roof of the factory to the very top of the overhanging rocks dangling above the crater, completely gave way and allowed all of the lava in the Volcano to pour down unmercifully, unloading its deadly inferno payload onto the factory at once. Almost instantly, the lava splattered on top of the factory, covering the roof and spreading along the entire top of the building. Although some of it managed to reach holes in the roof from the earlier explosions and pour in through those, it took only a few minutes for the heat to take its toll on the metal, making it bend inward like a blanket, becoming so shockingly flexible in its final moments before breaking away completely and allowing the lava to flow in steadily. The lava poured down into the factory, engulfing whatever platforms and equipment still remained, as well as the remains of the silos that had previously contained the explosive cargo of hundreds of Mech Eggs and Attack Robots. It collected in a pool at the bottom of the factory, as the earth floor was the limit of the lava's destructive power, and it steadily built up in a few more minutes, finally rising high enough to the point where the lava rose up and spilled over the level of the doorway leading into the factory, pouring down through the destroyed hallway just outside the factory. Despite all that had pooled up in the factory, the Volcano still had a startlingly abundant amount of lava that was ready to pour out onto the facility below it. This steady supply of lava flowed down through the ruined corridors, consuming structures destroyed and still-standing alike, chewing up and dissolving foundations, swallowing up pieces of loose debris, and tumbling the highest remaining fragments of the building still standing. It continued on relentlessly, endlessly, raining down upon the doomed facility almost as if sent by God Himself, like the modern day version of Sodom and Gomorrah. It flooded like a river of death through the wreckage, consuming all and sparing none. Even after spreading thoroughly through the facility itself, it continued to spread out and expand its destruction, flooding the grassy area beyond the facility, burning all of the little vegetation in the valley and consuming the remains of the hangar.

Within about 10 minutes, all of the lava had completely surrounded the facility, the hangar, and a majority of the valley floor. The more resilient buildings managed to stay intact for a while, but were slowly and gradually sinking into the lava. A massive veil of steam collectively rose up from every structure, every piece of Karovanine, in the entire area, easily overtaking the plain black smoke from earlier with a shroud of white and gray, as the deadly toxin released by the decomposition of Karovanine slowly took hold of the entire valley like a massive gas chamber.

…

Sly was rather fortunate, as the Clockwerk was tilted to the side at the moment of ejection. Thus, he shot up through the air at an angle, aimed towards the valley wall, which was farther below him. Right when the chair reached its peak in height, and was briefly suspended for a second, the top of the headrest blew off, and the white parachute deployed instantly. As the chair began falling, the parachute opened up to its full size, halting the chair's rapid descent and slowing it down to a steady drop. As it fell, it was already directly over the raised area overlooking the valley. As he drifted down further, he quickly placed his Cane in his mouth and reached up with both hands to grab some of the strings connecting the parachute to the chair, attempting to control the direction the parachute drifted so that he would avoid the trees on one side and the edge of the cliff on the other.

Eventually, with some tricky maneuvering, the chair came to a relatively soft landing on a small clearing of grass, scraping along for a couple feet before finally stopping. The parachute continued moving to one side, fluttering down to the ground away from the chair and its occupant. Before the chair even stopped moving, Sly was already unfastening the safety belt and leaping out. The moment he touched the ground, however, there was a massive, earth-shaking rumble that threw him off his feet and to the grass below. He slid to the right, stopping just a few feet from the edge of the cliff. He lifted his head up and, seeing the edge nearby, crawled a little further to look down over the edge at the facility below. He saw the Clockwerk smashing through the facility, tearing up the metal structures and charging through with no sign of slowing down, like a massive drill through a line of boulders.

After watching this for a few more seconds, he pushed himself back up to his feet and dashed off along the edge of the cliff, searching for the metal stake and rope that marked where they had started their approach from. Ironically, it was not far off, only about 20 or 30 yards away. He found the stake, with the rope still attached and draped down over the edge of the cliff, and the small black box next to it.

Just as he bent down to pick up the box, there was another, even larger, louder, and more powerful jolt that sent him flying backwards, away from the edge of the cliff, and the black box flying out of his hand and clattering off into some nearby bushes. He found himself lying on the ground, his Cane under his arm next to him, and staring up at the starry sky with the plumes of smoke contaminating its pure beauty. He quickly sat up and looked towards the valley. This time, he didn't even have to move closer to the cliff edge to see what was happening. A massive orange fireball was pluming up out of the valley, undoubtedly from the factory due to its close proximity to the Volcano, billowing up into a massive mushroom cloud that slowly transitioned into a tower of thick black smoke. Even then, multiple smaller explosions continued erupting out from below it, fueling the fiery beast.

Sly stared at it, completely dumbfounded, before his senses came back to him. Shaking it off, he turned to the side in the direction that the box had flown. He crawled along furiously towards the nearest bush and frantically reached around inside and underneath it. Eventually, his fingers wrapped around the small box and he yanked it out. He quickly pressed the red button.

…

Down in the valley, Bentley and Murray watched the entire scene with the Clockwerk unfold in mute amazement. Even as they kept moving, running along the outer perimeter of the facility towards the wall where their rope had been dropped, they constantly looked back at the Clockwerk's jerky, wild flight the entire time. Just as they reached the tip of the ruined building, they saw the Clockwerk began its clear downward spiral.

"Bentley, look!"

Murray gestured at the Clockwerk, and the first thing Bentley noticed was how low Murray's finger was aimed. It was not high up in the sky above them like he thought, but much lower, even below the tip of the Volcano. This could only mean one thing. Bentley followed the direction Murray was pointing and saw the mighty machine, curled up with its wings encasing it, soaring straight down towards the facility. The moment of impact shook the entire valley floor, the earthquake-like hit sending both of them crashing to the ground, Bentley tumbling out of his chair and Murray's feet kicking out from under him as he slammed onto his back. The entire ground was shaking, rattling both of their bodies. Even as they were lying on the ground in shock, they could still only stare in amazement as entire buildings were sent flying into the air, and the unmistakable tremor rippling down the line of buildings, tearing up more structures and sending more debris into the air, continued its deadly path straight towards the factory.

Murray was the first to scramble to his feet. Transfixed on the spectacle for a few more seconds, he spun around and quickly picked up Bentley with one hand and the wheelchair with the other, carefully placing his friend back in and tightening his safety belt for him.

"Thanks, pa-."

Before Bentley could finish his sentence, both were thrown off their feet, flying several feet, before hitting the ground once more when another explosion went off. This one was far more devastating, and it erupted out of the factory. The fireball seemed to grow larger and larger, fueled by more and more explosions that just kept piling up into the chaos.

Murray groaned and winced as he sat up, quickly reaching behind his back as he felt a searing pain from the impact and the speed. It took him a few more moments to recover from the pain and the shock to get up once more, turn around, and pick Bentley up and put him back into his wheelchair for the second time.

"Thanks again, now let's-."

Bentley's sentence was, once again, cut off. This time, however, it was a far lesser disturbance. Both felt a sharp ringing in their ears, beeping two rapid notes over and over like an alarm clock. Bentley quickly pressed his communicator and shut the alarm off.

"That's the signal, Murray!"

Murray quickly did the same, then both of them turned and looked up the cliff wall where their rope was, following it up to the very top. They could barely see anything, and the still-rumbling earth didn't help.

Bentley quickly pressed a button on his left armrest that brought out his bino-cu-com, and peered through it. He followed it up the rope to the top of the cliff.

At first, there was nothing…

Then he saw the all-too familiar figure slowly walk up to the edge of the cliff, standing above the rope, looking down frantically into the valley. In his hand was the black box.

"It's Sly!" Bentley called out. "He's up there! He made it!"

Murray, too desperate and frantic to waste time seeing for himself, simply cupped both hands on both sides of his mouth and, with all his might, shouted.

"SLY! DOWN HERE! SLYYYY!"

Through his bino-cu-com, Bentley saw Sly look down towards the spot where they were standing. He leaned forward slightly, then apparently noticed them. He dropped the box, pulled his Cane out from under his arm, then raised it high and started waving it back and forth, gesturing for them to come up. Bentley took note of Sly's left arm, hanging limply at his side with that ominous shade of dark red gleaming on it…

"Sly wants us up there now." Bentley reported to Murray.

"No kidding. I want us up there, too! We have to go!"

"But Murray, wait! Penelope…"

Murray's eyes widened in realization, and he looked back towards the facility. At that moment, the series of explosions up the elevator shaft had already taken its toll, having destroyed the late Commander's chamber and severely damaged the Volcano wall. Even with the tower of black smoke pluming out of the ruined factory, the few spitting trails of lava could be seen pouring down onto the facility.

Murray froze in horror.

"Oh…_no_."

"What? What is it?" Bentley asked frantically, turning around and looking in the same direction as Murray with his bino-cu-com.

Soon, he eventually found one of the small streams of lava, its bright orange color a strong juxtaposition against the dark rock wall and the black smoke tower.

"Oh, no…"

Then, through his bino-cu-com, Bentley suddenly saw a massive flash of bright orange completely overtake his view of the small stream, and he jerked his head up.

"What in the worl-."

Both jaws dropped simultaneously.

They could only watch as the Volcano wall finally gave in, collapsing and allowing the Volcano's fiery, destructive contents to pour out at once onto the doomed facility below. The bright, fiery lava instantly severed a portion of the black tower, its brightness overpowering it as if melting through it the way it would melt through metal.

Almost instantly, the moment was a wakeup call to both of them.

"That's it, we're going NOW!" Murray declared.

"But…but…"

"_NOW!_"

Murray turned and dashed like a madman towards the Volcano wall, leaving Bentley behind for a brief moment before the turtle finally gave up, turning and wheeling furiously after him.

Murray reached the rope first, tugging on it twice to ensure its strength, then gestured for Bentley to hurry.

"Hurry it up! Get over here!"

Bentley finally reached the rope and grabbed it firmly with both hands.

Murray stepped back from the wall a few feet, then cupped his hands again and shouted up to Sly, "Bentley goes up first! Pull him up!"

Sly, despite the loud noise resonating from the valley below, heard the message clearly enough and grabbed the rope with both hands, despite the blinding pain still resounding in one hand. He grunted with each pull, but refused to stop for even a second, pulling more and more rope, slowly bringing his disabled friend up the wall in a painstakingly slow process.

From below, Murray watched as Bentley continued up the wall, constantly looking back and forth between his ascending friend and the scene of destruction and chaos behind him. Every time he looked back, the river of lava was advancing further and further, enveloping more of the facility and creating more and more towers of thick white steam.

After what felt like an eternity to all three of them, Bentley finally reached the top of the cliff. Sly furiously pulled his wheelchair up onto the firm ground and took the rope from his hands, grabbing as much of the bundled rope as he could and heaving it over the edge of the cliff once more.

Bentley, after wheeling far away enough from the edge of the cliff, spun around to Sly.

"Sly, what happened? Where's Penelope? We can't leave her!"

But Sly ignored him as he watched the rope unfurl and tumble down the edge of the cliff, miraculously remaining untangled and stretching out to its fullest length as its other end reached Murray. Murray wasted no time in grabbing the rope and furiously climbing up on his own strength. Sly attempted to help by pulling the rope up once more, but Murray scaled much more of the rope than Sly managed to pull, and practically threw himself onto the higher ground once he reached the top of the cliff.

"Thank God…" Murray muttered.

"OK, we have no time. We must get out of here NOW!" Sly ordered.

"But SLY!" Bentley protested. "What about Penelope? I refuse to just leave her! Isn't she down there?"

Sly, for the first time since he jumped into the metal chute, remembered their fallen comrade somewhere down in the ruins of the facility. His dread returned, briefly overpowering his rush of adrenaline as he contemplated a decent response. Before he even thought about it, he responded.

"Yeah, she's down there alright-."

"SO LET'S GO GET HER." Bentley shouted at the top of his lungs, his passion and energy startling both of his friends.

Murray briefly retracted, then turned to Sly with a worried look. Sly returned a very solemn look, the heaviness of his stare instantly communicating the message to Murray. Murray seemed to understand, as his look went from one of uncertainty and worry to sudden heaviness and defeat, with hints of sorrow.

Sly turned back to Bentley.

"You didn't let me finish my sentence."

Then, soundlessly, he bent down and grabbed the metal stake, yanking it up out of the ground. Several small clods of dirt and grass flew as he did so, and he effortlessly turned around and tossed it over the edge of the cliff, taking the rope down with it.

"SLY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? ARE YOU CRAZY!"

Still as calm and somber as ever, Sly turned back to his distraught friend.

"As I was saying: She's down there alright…Dead."

For a few moments, there was pure silence between the three. There were only the occasional rumblings from further explosions in the valley below.

"…Are you sure?" Bentley asked after the silence in a weak, trembling voice.

Sly didn't even nod. "I saw it."

Bentley's next sound – a mix of a moan, a shout, and crying – was lost to the wind, drifting off towards the towers of black smoke and white steam emitting from the valley, the vocalization dissipating with the smoke, even as the memory of the sound rang hard and painfully in the ears of his two friends.

**To be continued…**

It was several long, agonizing hours before the trio finally reached the edge of the forest, with the mountain road that they had taken up before now stretching out before them. Along the way, after an awkward period of time where Sly and Murray kept their distance from the sniveling, sobbing, devastated Bentley, Sly finally got around to retelling the entire story: His capture, his conversation with Vlotho and the revelations of ORNWOR, its past, and its intentions, as well as the pre-prepared army of Mech Eggs, Attack Robots, and Robo-Falcons, the revelations about the nature of Karovanine (including how it released a deadly chemical gas upon complete dissolving in lava, hence why they had to get as far away from the valley as possible), Penelope's death (which he awkwardly tried to keep as clean and non-graphic as possible), his first fight with Hans, his escape, his second and final fight with Hans, and finally, his fight with Vlotho that eventually led to the destruction of the Second Clockwerk. He wrapped it all up just as they arrived at the edge of the woods.

"Un…believable." Murray stuttered, shaking his head.

"It was that close." Sly said, pinching his index finger and thumb together. "That close to all of those monsters being unleashed onto the whole world. Who knows? He just might have…"

"Well, the point is, it's over now, right?" Murray asked, the slightest hint of worry still present in his voice.

"Yes, pal. It's over. But it's not like before. This victory came at a price."

At this, Bentley finally spoke for the first time since he learned of Penelope's death.

"Victory…always does."

They stopped. Both turned to Bentley, and Sly slowly walked up and put a hand on his shoulder. If Bentley noticed the gesture, he certainly didn't acknowledge it.

With a long sigh, Sly finally responded. "Bentley…I'm sorry."

"It's not like you…could've done anything…to save her…"

"No, not that. I'm sorry for how I've been acting. Ever since Carmelita's death, I've been so enveloped by my pain and anger that all I could think about was revenge. I treated both of you and Penelope like dirt, I was pushing all four of us beyond our limits, risking all of your lives…It was horrible. I've never been like that before, and I promise I never will again."

"Sly…It's OK…" Bentley started to reply.

"Not just that, but when I openly told you that you would never understand my pain…it was almost as if I was damning you and Penelope then and there. Like I was silently hoping that you would experience it…and now you have."

"I know you would never wish that on me or any of us, Sly. It was the heat of the moment. And you were right. It was wrong of me to assume that I knew what it felt like before. Because now I know. But only now. Before, I had no idea what it was like."

"Bentley…"

Bentley finally turned completely around and faced his friend, slumped shoulders and somber mood reflected in his eyes.

"It's alright, pal. I forgive you."

After a pause, they both embraced once more, just as they had the first time they met since Carmelita's death. Only this time, the feeling of comfort was mutual on both sides. A single tear escaped Sly's eye. It was in that moment that Sly finally felt it. It was a feeling of relief. Of liberation. All the weight, depression, and stormy fury that had been tugging at his mind and his heart for the last eight days was finally gone. Evaporated. Dissipated. Swirling up into the winds of time and blowing away into eternity just as the smoke from the valley had dissipated over time. In embarking on a personal quest, he had inadvertently stumbled upon a catastrophe waiting to happen, and had managed to defeat all odds to put an end to it with only his wits, determination, and the aid of his friends. At long last, through all of the physical and metal pain, he was finally free.

After they slowly pulled away, Sly turned around to Murray.

"And I'm sorry to you, too, Murray. This whole crazy scheme cost you your house, all your possessions, and, of course, your van…"

"Ah…" Murray started, shrugging it off. "It's just stuff. It's not like I lost someone as special to me as Carmelita was to you, or Penelope was to Bentley."

"True…but that van. You loved that van so much it wasn't even funny."

"Are you kidding me? Yeah, it was a sweet van, and we had it for a long time…but I would've blown it up myself if I had to choose between keeping it or you guys."

For the first time, a look of genuine shock appeared in Sly's and Bentley's eyes.

"It was just a pile of metal, gasoline, rubber, and the necessary cylinders and air conditioning and heating systems." Murray said with a smile and another shrug.

Sly, for the first time in a long time, grinned the slightest of grins. Turning away from Murray to look back out at the mountain road, he shook his head.

"Well…it's gonna be a long trip back down."

"But I think we can manage it." Murray said, walking up to stand right next to Sly and Bentley.

Sly paused for a moment, then looked down at his watch.

1:43 A.M.

"My official leave of absence ends today. It would take us half a day to get down that mountain trail, assuming we can't hitch a ride from any passerby. And then trying to find a way to…_acquire_ the money for a plane ticket, as well as finding the nearest airport and flights that even begin to head in Paris's direction, all make it impossible for me to make it back on time. And that's just the beginning. Explaining my leave of absence, what I did, and why I did it is going to be nearly impossible. I'll never come up with a good enough alibi."

Bentley looked back up at Sly, the look of mixed relief and forgiveness now replaced by one of worry.

"What are you gonna do? If you choose not to return at all, it'll be just like before. They'll offer rewards, they'll spread the news all over the world that you're missing again…"

"You're right, Bentley. It _will_ be just like old times." Sly said to his friend with a smile.

Bentley's look vanished as the realization dawned on him.

"I have no reason to return. No motivation. Carmelita's gone. She was the one and only reason I ever chose to become a cop. As if that's not enough, she was my only true ally while I was on the force. The one who truly and repeatedly defended me when I was under suspicion. To return now, even if not long after my time expired, would still be just like walking into the cell door and closing it behind me."

After another pause, in which Sly looked once at Bentley, then at Murray, then back down towards the road again, he continued. "I'm done with being a cop. It's back to what I do best."

Almost instantly, he was rushed from both sides as Murray and Bentley joined in for a group hug; the first one in a long time.

"It's good to have you back, buddy." Murray choked.

"It's good to be back." Sly gasped, partially choked under Murray's tight grip.

And so the three friends stood, in a mutual embrace. They had left behind the crowded, dense, and dark woods of the past, shielding the chaos, death, and destruction that they had just overcome, and were now overlooking a long, winding trail, leading back down through the mountains and towards civilization, towards freedom, and towards a promising future.

**The End**

**Author's Note: Well, this is the end of the story, but tune in tomorrow for one more final chapter. It is not a continuation of the story in any way, but if you still have the time or interest to read it, I encourage you to check it out.**


	24. Afterword

**Afterword**

**I normally don't do this for my stories, and this might be the only time I ever will. But the road that led me to the finished product you now know as **_**Operation: The Third Day**_** was a long, windy, rocky one, full of obstacles, from mere speed bumps to all-out roadblocks. I feel that the documentation behind the making of this story is long enough and worthy enough to be written out in full detail in its own chapter. But this is nothing more than a simple Afterword, and does not affect the storyline in any way. So if you don't want to read this, then you don't have to.**

**I might as well start from the beginning. That is generally where people start, isn't it?**

**I was always fascinated with the art of fanfiction. I always had multiple ideas for fanfiction stories floating around in my head, and I knew that I had to release them sooner or later before I either forget about them or deemed it too hard or unbelievable to do. When I finally started my account on , it was the very first Internet account I ever had, predating my Total Drama Wiki account (.com/wiki/User:Fedora_Kid) by just short of a year, and my YouTube account by over two years. It was started on December 22, 2008.**

**Since then, I have written 9 other stories, spanning across three different fandoms. The second one I wrote for was the Total Drama fandom, which, to this day, still easily remains my most successful fandom, with four stories up. Two are completed, and both have over 100 reviews each, and the third one, already at 40 reviews, is still currently in production. The fourth is a oneshot. All four of these stories have received entirely positive reviews; not a single negative one in sight. Upon my completion of the third story, which will be the conclusion of what I call the **_**Second Season**_** trilogy, I will permanently retire from the Total Drama fandom. My third fandom was the fandom for Avatar: The Last Airbender. I have written three stories for that one, all of which are also oneshots, put together in a little oneshot trilogy. The trilogy was initially well-received, with the only exception being the second one, which, I'll admit, featured out-of-character moments for the two main characters. At this juncture, I have no plans to write any other story for that fandom, although that could possibly change depending on the success of Avatar: Legend of Korra.**

**But, before Total Drama and before Avatar, it all started with Sly Cooper. Before Total Drama first premiered in 2007 (which I wasn't even interested in until late 2008), and before Avatar premiered (which I also wasn't interested in until about halfway through the second season), I was first interested in Sly Cooper. Once again, I wasn't interested in it from the start, 10 years ago in 2002. But once I discovered the second game in 2004, I was hooked instantly, buying the other two games and becoming a die-hard fan. Early on, I still kept that one special word, fanfiction, alive in my mind. In the back of my mind, I always had that desire to just get out and release my imagination in fanfiction, and a good majority of those ideas (most of which were, to put it delicately, pathetic pieces of crap) were for Sly Cooper stories.**

**Just four short days after I became an author on , I published two oneshots back to back, each centering around my top two favorite characters of the series: Captain LeFwee and Arpeggio. Both are, coincidentally, two of only a few characters in the series who have died, which upset me greatly. Thus, both are basically the same thing: Presenting a scenario in which both survived. The first one was Untitled for a long time, up until I finally came up with a name on August 8, 2011: **_**An Arpeggio of Misery**_**. The second was **_**LeFwee's Story**_**. I look back at these now; my first two stories ever written and published on . And, in all complete honesty, I cringe. Despite both receiving several reviews (all of which were positive), I personally considered them hastily-written, sloppy, overly-biased failures.**

**As a result, I turned my back on the Sly Cooper fandom for over three years as I went to work on the Total Drama and Avatar fandoms. But, for all those years, and despite facing much more critical success and more reviews, I always felt a tinge of guilt for completely shunning the Sly Cooper fandom like I had. After all, Sly Cooper was what got me started on my love for fanfiction, and was the fandom where my first two stories ever were published. Thus, I felt a need to return to that fandom with a real bang, as a way of returning the favor for getting me started. Because, truth be told, I only really got connected with things such as Total Drama (again, my biggest success) through my account. Had it not been for Sly Cooper getting me started, I wouldn't be nearly as big of a success on the Internet as I am now.**

**Thus, I turned to one of my old ideas for help with that amazing comeback.**

**Due to my youthful enthusiasm, I actually wrote many of my original ideas long before I even had an account, since I wanted a bit of a head start before actually getting to work. Most of those ideas have since been destroyed, since they truly were legitimate pieces of crap. But one idea still lingered through all the months…**

**I started writing **_**Operation: The Third Day**_** sometime in early 2008. That's right, **_**2008**_**. I spent **_**over 3 and a half years**_** writing this monster. I finally typed those two glorious, three-lettered, bolded words at the very end of the 23****rd**** chapter at about 2:15 P.M. on Thursday, December 15, 2011. This day may better known as the day that the nine-year-long Iraq War was declared officially over.**

**Let me tell you, this story went through a lot, and the finished product could not be more distant from what it originally started out as. The initial setting and basic idea was still the same: Clockwerk being resurrected at a new facility set up at the Krak-Karov Volcano, and so on. The idea that all other members of the gang (as well as Carmelita) were going to be mysteriously and brutally killed off one at a time was also part of the story early on. After all, it is pretty much what sets all of the story's events in motion; at least Carmelita's death. But really, beyond that, everything else has changed. **

**It was started under the original working title of **_**Villains United**_**. That was because my original idea for this story had absolutely no new villains; no original characters of my own. It was going to consist entirely of returning villains: Sir Raleigh, Muggshot, Mz. Ruby, Rajan, the Contessa, Jean Bison, Octavio, General Tsao, and Dr. M. It was they who were going to be in charge of the whole operation, with, naturally, Dr. M as their leader. In addition, it would be various members of the league of villains who would carry out the actual murders of the former gang members, not one individual. For example, Octavio was going to be behind the death of the Panda King, and so on. **

**However, I felt that it wouldn't have enough originality to it if I piggybacked off of pre-existing characters. Plus, if I created my own, I could do whatever the hell I wanted to with them, such as their behavior, their character, and with absolutely no limit to what they can do. Vlotho, in particular, was fun to write because he's a very different kind of insane. He's not all-out, giggling, scary-happy Joker insane, he's not brutal, disgusting, demented Charles Manson insane. Rather, he's a very subtle, contained, and quiet insane. Occasionally, that insanity bursts out randomly and often in short bursts (in manners similar to the two aforementioned examples), then vanishes into his cool, calm, sophisticated, and collected persona. He's extremely intelligent, but has trouble controlling his frustration with many others believing that he's psycho. He believes so firmly in his idea of being the next in a great line of conquerors that he is convinced that it's not insanity, but rather, destiny. This motif was inspired by one of Vlotho's so-called "past selves:" Adolf Hitler, who also shared a passionate belief that he was next in line, even citing his own inspiration Napoleon Bonaparte (who, coincidentally, is **_**also**_** mentioned by Vlotho. See the pattern?). Additional minor villain characters, such as Colonel Grant and Hans, were added in as typical henchmen, with some of their own character, but ultimately serving as simple second-in-commands or right-hand men to the real villain, Vlotho.**

**In addition, the decision to kill off Penelope was one I debated for a while, and didn't exist at all in the original draft. However, I felt that she had to go for two reasons: 1. It wouldn't make much sense for her to survive, since she rarely does anything of true use. I felt that, being the ultimate dangerous adventure, someone else had to go. And 2: Sly's character arc in the story, starting with Carmelita's death, had to culminate in a very meaningful way. He is very bitter, and often harsh to his friends, due to being blinded by anger, sorrow, and the lust for revenge. The death of Penelope is, more or less, set up by the scene in Chapter 7: A New Resolve, during the conversation between Sly and Bentley. Once Bentley goes through the same horrible, painful feeling that Sly went through, it would allow Sly to finally get slapped by reality, and realize that he's not the only person suffering in the world. This, along with his underlying guilt for feeling that he could've helped save Penelope, but didn't, humbles him and helps him to return back to normal, realizing that, while Carmelita was still very important to him, his friends were with him for almost his entire life, much longer than Carmelita, and, in the end, were truly the most important people in his life. Thus, he had to be there for them when they both suffered horrible, painful losses just like he did.**

**The assassin. I added him in later on because I felt that, if one person alone was responsible for all of the murders and pursued the Gang relentlessly, it'd be more terrifying, more intimidating, and more entertaining than just one person per murder, and no one actually chasing them across the world, which is what the original version was. I've always been particularly proud of this character, because he's not so much a character as he is a personification of evil, persistence, and strength. Almost like a primeval instinct, combined with extraordinary intellect. He does what he's told not because he wants money, not because he wants to be known as the world's best assassin, and not because his father was also in the business. He kills just to kill, and nothing can stop him. Not fatigue or morals or ethics. It's that simple. He never speaks. He never falters. He is barely fazed in the face of death itself. Another thing that adds to his level of mystery is that not once, in the entire story, do I even remotely hint at what kind of animal he is. I simply describe him as "him," or "the man," or "he." Because, to be completely honest, I can't imagine any one animal that fits this ultimate, deadly warrior. If I did pin any one species to him, it would make him less intimidating than he would be if he was a mystery. That's another bit of involvement on your part. **_**You**_** decide what kind of animal he is…if you want to, that is.**

**The characters of Eugene Braskel and Glen Whitman were also fairly last-minute ("minute" probably meaning more like "month") decisions. The one scene where they confront Sly in Chapter 4: Discovery was originally the scene that introduced them, and that was in there for quite a while. However, that was going to be the **_**only **_**scene featuring either of them. They were intended as one-time appearing characters. However, I felt obligated to expand more with them for two reasons. 1. I felt that I had to include a bit more of the law enforcement aspect of this story. After all, Sly is technically still employed by Interpol, and secretly working on the other side of the law throughout the story. I felt that there had to be some kind of secondary police involvement on some way. I definitely wanted this to be done through original characters, and not through already existing characters such as Winthorp (whom I instead decided to have killed off as well, presumably due to his direct involvement with Carmelita for so long), Barkley (whom I find amusing at times, but not good enough to be a recurring character), and Lieutenant Gronk (whom I find slightly overused due to his very brief appearance in Sly 3, and severely lacking in substance). Originally, Braskel and Whitman were going to just be the one-time voice of the police department, but I felt that, after introducing them and setting them up as such promising, almost antagonistic characters so early on, it would be a waste to completely drop them. Thus, I added in the scene where they indirectly spy on Sly in Chapter 2: Mourning, and added in the additional scene with them talking to Barkley in Chapter 4: Discovery. From there, I pretty much just clipped in additional scenes featuring them following Sly and the Gang, such as Chapter 9: Nightmare and Chapter 11: Preparations. The only time that I had their subplot already set in stone when I wrote a new chapter was with Chapter 13: The Chase. Ironically, their final chapter.**

**A really minor detail that also changed about halfway through was the introduction of Karovanine. In Sly 1, Bentley mentions that the kind of metal used in the blasting vehicles found in both Mz. Ruby's lair and the Panda King's lair could be found in only one place: The Krak-Karov Volcano. AKA, Clockwerk's hideout. I always had that slight notion itching in the back of my mind that perhaps this metal is one of the major components in Clockwerk's immortality and durability. A unique metal, not found on the Periodic Table, that never rusts, never wears out, never corrodes, and, in a sense, lasts forever. That this metal is the ultimate weapon in making Clockwerk immune to so many attacks and gunfire and so on. To me, it helped increase the story's credibility by quite a bit. The bit with it releasing a deadly gas when dissolved in lava was also thrown in there, so as to provide a better excuse for why Interpol left the Volcano so quickly after discovering Clockwerk, and why the place remained deserted, unvisited, and isolated for so many years.**

**Over time, all through rewriting the stories, redoing drafts, writing completely new drafts, and so on, I mostly wrote this story out of order. The first chapter, Chapter 1: Target: Fox, was always pretty much the exact same. The only other two chapters that always remained the same, and were definitive landmarks in the writing process for me even during the days of writing and organizing hell, were Chapter 10: Los Angeles and Chapter 18: Revelation. I pretty much worked around those chapters, filling in the holes, and the story finally managed to come together and actually look like a story in early 2011. I was on a gold rush of writing from late June of 2011, all through July of 2011, to August of 2011, seeing more progress in those two and a half months than I had over the last 3 years. I was mainly inspired by the official announcement of Sly 4: Thieves in Time. I figured that, when this game came out, it would instantly spark a resurgence in energy all across the Sly Cooper fanbase, including the fandom. Thus, I wanted to get it done before the official release date of early to mid-2012, and found myself finishing it early ahead of time, mostly so that I could publish this as one of the last truly long, post-Sly 3 stories that I could write using the simple excuse that, in this parallel universe, Sly 4 hasn't happened yet or will never happen.**

**Lastly, I want to cite all of my inspirations for this story, from which I even drew various elements from and subtly inserted them into the story. When I mention these, you might consider going back and looking for the hints or homages to these sources of inspiration.**

_**James Bond**_**: Most prominently, **_**You Only Live Twice**_** (1967), for the idea of the Volcano base as well as the inspiration for the character of Hans, based on the bodyguard of the same name in the film, portrayed by Ronald Rich.**

_**Duel**_**: As inspiration for the second half – the semi-truck portion – of the chase scene in Chapter 10: Los Angeles, as well as the railroad crossing climax of the same chapter.**

_**The Terminator**_**: Most prominently, the original 1984 masterpiece, for the factory chase scene in Chapter 20: The Factory, for the character of the assassin, and for the entire chase scene in Chapter 10: Los Angeles. Additionally, **_**Terminator 2: Judgment Day**_** (1991), with the demise of the T-1000 as inspiration for the death of the assassin, the truck chase scene as inspiration for the second half of the chase in Chapter 10: Los Angeles, the helicopter chase scene in the film as inspiration for the chase scene in Chapter 13: The Chase.**

_**Die Hard**_**: The original from 1988, with Alan Rickman's portrayal of Hans Gruber also serving as inspiration for the character of Hans, as well as his death being the inspiration for the death scenes of both Hans and the assassin. Also, **_**Live Free or Die Hard **_**(2007), also for the truck chase scene in Chapter 10: Los Angeles. The first (fake) death of the henchman Karl in the original movie was also the inspiration for Murray's "death" at the hands of the assassin in Chapter 22: The Factory: Part II. The second and final death of Karl was inspiration for the death of the assassin.**

_**Batman**_**: Most prominently, the 1989 film, mostly for the helicopter chase in Chapter 13: The Chase, based on the Batwing scene, as well as the death of Hans being partially inspired by the death of the Joker, portrayed by Jack Nicholson. Additionally, the scene where the Joker shoots up Carl Grissom (played by Jack Palance) was inspiration for the similar scene where Vlotho unceremoniously executes Sergeant Bolan.**

_**Halloween**_**:**** With Michael Myers (portrayed by Nick Castle) as inspiration for the character of the assassin.**

_**The Thing**_**: As inspiration for the scene where the facility is destroyed.**

**That's all for this Afterword. For all of you who took your time to read and review this story, and especially those who took extra time to read this Afterword, I sincerely thank you. It helps to know that my efforts over the last 3 years are appreciated. Ultimately, I consider this to be probably one of the top two best stories I've ever written here on , tied with **_**Total Drama World Tour: Second Season**_**. However, the previous two predecessors to the aforementioned story were at a considerably lower level than the third in so many ways that almost disgust me (as they were written in my earlier days), which, in their own way, hinder the success of this story. In addition, the story is still currently unfinished, with no end in sight due to extreme writer's block, hiatus, and school work slowing me down severely. This story, however, has no predecessors that harm it in the same manner, and I was not faced with as much writer's block with this one as I was the other. Thus, for those reasons, I ultimately consider this to be the better of the two, and my **_**magnum opus**_** (Latin phrase, translated: Largest, finest, and/or most popular work of an author)**_**.**_** It ultimately succeeded in meeting my expectations, and is just as good as I originally envisioned it when I was a naïve, overly-enthusiastic 14-year-old who had a single idea, and began what would grow into a monster of a story all those years ago. It was long, stressful, and demanding. But it was worth it.**


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